Hey student!

A hot day, the sun blazing down, Lindsey wandering around the house in silent boredoms, her vest revealing a pale mound of swaying breast beneath; I was eager to be gone.

I caught the 6.30 coach and left all of Watermouth playing happily in the sun. We reached Waterloo two-and-a-half hours later after a vomiting drunk had been ejected from the coach just outside Watermouth, leaving the beery contents of his stomach behind as a memento. Two police officers removed him: “you’re not going anywhere in that state.” During the subsequent journey the coach was awash with vomit.

It was a hot evening in London, churning crowds outside the train station, joyous evangelicals holding a revivalist-style meeting. I caught the bus to Stoke Newington and as we drove through the busy streets the warm scents of dry and dusty pavements, cooking food, and crowds assailed my nostrils.

I reached Stoke Newington OK but got lost following Andrew’s directions and traipsed miles out of my way before eventually reaching Reighburgh Road and journey’s end. Andrew obviously pleased to see me; wooden intros to black flatmate Sheena and a meal of sausages, rice and fried peppers. The house is only costing Andrew £21.50 a week. “I’m sick of living like a student,” he says.

I slept in his friend’s bed who's up in Edinburgh.