...to cider and black at The Star on Wakefield Road, to the smell of pine from a real Christmas tree, to my limitless supply of books, to my cat, who between naps on the back of the sofa probably hasn’t even realised I’ve been away for four months, to British television, to walks around the frozen lake at Cannon Hall, to tattoos that remind me of second year summer, to having a sofa again, to Love Actually and Bridget and Pride and Prejudice, to a snow covered Thorpe Lane, to mince pies, to Mingles, to Castle Hill, to the Comedy Store, to Dirty Dancing in Manchester, to Piccadilly station, to rolling hills, to mulled cider at Giraffe, to present exchanges, to my grandparents, to garden centres, to cheap, acidic wine at Huddersfield Yates, to the Kingsgate Centre in festive lights, to Haigh’s farm shop, to fireworks, to the Yorkshire accent, to gingerbread smells, to snow, to boxes of Celebrations, to baubles, to Christmas stockings, to woolly hats, to Morrissey and the Stone Roses, to driving back over Saddleworth moor, to pointing out the chippy with the mushy pea fritters, to my own quilt, to chocolates on the tree, to Nosh, to Zephyr, to Chaophyra, to exhibitions of Alice in Wonderland and Ford Madox Brown, to Christmas cake with plastic Santas, to cups of tea from an actual kettle, to 19 days of an unopened advent calendar, to a hundred photographs of Almondbury, to making Christmas cards of Siena, to Wench Banter, to everyone in the world that I love, to Lancaster in January, to Friary and Merchants and Bar Eleven (before 9pm) and Water Witch and The Sun and afternoon drinking at Robert Gillow, to hallucinogenic spinach wraps at Venue, to the castle, to catch ups; to London, to The Independent, to learning shorthand, to reciting media law, to the British Museum and the V&A and Kensington High Street and crowded tube trains, to Royal Parks, to a pile of journalism books, to newspapers, to no more procrastination, to the next chapter... Extra baggage allowance bought, final visit to Trastevere undertaken, many hugs given: I'm coming home...
...to cider and black at The Star on Wakefield Road, to the smell of pine from a real Christmas tree, to my limitless supply of books, to my cat, who between naps on the back of the sofa probably hasn’t even realised I’ve been away for four months, to British television, to walks around the frozen lake at Cannon Hall, to tattoos that remind me of second year summer, to having a sofa again, to Love Actually and Bridget and Pride and Prejudice, to a snow covered Thorpe Lane, to mince pies, to Mingles, to Castle Hill, to the Comedy Store, to Dirty Dancing in Manchester, to Piccadilly station, to rolling hills, to mulled cider at Giraffe, to present exchanges, to my grandparents, to garden centres, to cheap, acidic wine at Huddersfield Yates, to the Kingsgate Centre in festive lights, to Haigh’s farm shop, to fireworks, to the Yorkshire accent, to gingerbread smells, to snow, to boxes of Celebrations, to baubles, to Christmas stockings, to woolly hats, to Morrissey and the Stone Roses, to driving back over Saddleworth moor, to pointing out the chippy with the mushy pea fritters, to my own quilt, to chocolates on the tree, to Nosh, to Zephyr, to Chaophyra, to exhibitions of Alice in Wonderland and Ford Madox Brown, to Christmas cake with plastic Santas, to cups of tea from an actual kettle, to 19 days of an unopened advent calendar, to a hundred photographs of Almondbury, to making Christmas cards of Siena, to Wench Banter, to everyone in the world that I love, to Lancaster in January, to Friary and Merchants and Bar Eleven (before 9pm) and Water Witch and The Sun and afternoon drinking at Robert Gillow, to hallucinogenic spinach wraps at Venue, to the castle, to catch ups; to London, to The Independent, to learning shorthand, to reciting media law, to the British Museum and the V&A and Kensington High Street and crowded tube trains, to Royal Parks, to a pile of journalism books, to newspapers, to no more procrastination, to the next chapter...
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