Home Alone

No man is an island, but I might just be a peninsula.

Having one's house to oneself is a thrill beyond even using the correct pronouns, ignoring the stylistic convention of a general "you" in order to avoid sounding like a character in a period drama. Note, I avoid such disasters by saying things of consequence from time to time, and not repeatedly commenting on how ridiculously proud Mr Darcy is. I've digressed.

Being home alone is brilliant as a child, especially with a house that is ordinarily filled with brothers and sisters. The novelty is not the only attraction. There's a post lingering around here from two years ago which tells of the numerous times I had bacon in one week that my family went on holiday without me. Needless to say, I wouldn't use 56 Otterburn as a den for gorging on pigs like a (cannibalistic) pig any more. 40 days meat-free, ladies and gentlemen.

This weekend, all but two of my fellow Flat 29ers are away. In a family home, I could roam around every room, pry toy-boxes, borrow any CD or DVD without permission and take as long as I want in the shower whilst the family is away. Here, this weekend, five rooms are locked, I'm stuck with my own meagre collection of media, and I can shower as long as I want whenever I want. En-suite bathroom, peeps; it even has a bath.

Furthermore, I'd ordinarily invite copious amounts of friends around to 56 whenever I had the place to myself, but I only have 29 to myself because my friends aren't here. It is a strange, paradoxical situation and I think the only way to combat it is to visit the Union's pub, The Dirty Duck, with the few remaining members of the clan who are currently dotted around campus.

Would you look at that? I actually blogged about something that happened.