First Letter Home

Wotcher stranger! Remember me? Yes, I am talking like a born and bred southerner already. No more ‘blooooke’ or ‘poooost box’ – I’ve learnt to speak properly, now that I’m living on a reservation for southern grammar school kids. It rained horrendously the morning I came up here – always one for pathetic fallacy, I was shitting myself. (Even though I remember a particularly rainy day that wasn’t so bad...)

My room is lovely – not massive, but lots of floor space for when my ‘kids’ come to visit their mad mother. I’ve got a beautiful view of the cathedral from my window too. Once I get the chance, I’ll put some photos up in the usual place – make sure you have a look, OK?

Sunday night was... interesting! I ended up in ‘Klute’, which is dubbed the worst nightclub in Europe – an ill-deserved reputation, even if it does look like a shed, and the dance floor is the size of my new room! So there I was, dancing and singing along to ‘Mr Brightside’ by The Killers, watching all the pretty, skinny girls getting off with the tall, fit lads, when I had a revelation: I need time. I realised that I’d barely had any time to grieve for what I’ve lost. One minute I was collapsing onto my knees in my wood, howling like some injured beast – the next I was being dumped in a glorified piss-up/orgy. Now that’s what I call whiplash... As for my heart, no whiplash for her just yet. Right now, I can’t bear the thought of being with anyone else – I’m not ready. Sometimes it feels like I never will be. I look around at all the guys here... they’re just boys. And I’m not interested.

Monday was college matriculation. I spent most of the morning milling about in my black gown – sent some pictures to friends. They insisted the gown was incredibly becoming – or, as Mike put it: ‘damn sexy’. To be honest, I felt more like Severus Snape than a Durham first year... And there’s another thought: I’m finally here – officially a university student. You spend so long living in the moment, that when the future finally slaps you in the face – it bloody stings! I’m not too proud to admit I am finding it difficult. I’ve barely been here three days but it feels like a lifetime – and my old life seems so distant; a half-remembered dream, or a story someone once told me, a very long time ago.

I’ve been having some teething troubles with my internet connection – I almost threw my laptop out the window! So, on Monday afternoon, I found myself five floors up in Mary’s ancient computer room; completely alone, crying over one of Tom’s poems. But I like that you’re leaving me a trail – it keeps me going. I picture you with me, you know – just like I said I would. Last night I was cocooned up in my duvet, watching you recline in my desk chair. I asked you to file the mountain of paperwork before my mother turns up and shouts at me – you only grinned your trademark, alchemical grin, and said nothing.

I smoked my first 'uni cigarette', standing on a bridge over the River Wear. Can you picture me there? Wearing my leather jacket, leaning over the wall to flick ash at the rowers that passed under me. I know Durham was supposed to be rehab – but I don’t think I’m ready to quit just yet. Maybe that’s why I’m writing you this letter... I hope you don’t mind, and this doesn’t make it worse. I’m not asking for a letter back – we both know that’s not a good idea, seen as I’ve only just climbed out of the rabbit hole. But maybe you could keep leaving me postcards? Just for the first few weeks, anyway. I’m not sure if I’ll write again – but I’ll leave you a few breadcrumbs every now and then. I just want you to know I’m doing OK - so don’t you worry about me. I miss you like hell, of course... That’s a given, isn’t it? It’s what we both signed up for.

I’m not sure how to end this – so I’ll just say: remember I’m still me, regardless of the change in location – and I don’t forget easily. And if you’re hurting, or ever in doubt – just remember those three remainders. Because they will always and forever be the answer to everything.