It’s that standard Facebook news feed that any student has to put up with through the summer: picture after picture upload showing tropical beaches and boat parties and pool selfies in fake Ray Bans.
Although this could be easily turned into a fun game of ‘hotdogs or legs’, the fact remains that I’m still stuck on this godforsaken island and dealing with the monotony of life, touring said island seeing relatives I’d prefer to avoid.
In the absence of a holiday, my daily activities are limited to arguing with my nagging mother and having even more heated debates with my cat. I was awoken the other night, not by a passing thunderstorm or the inexplicable heat, but by the animal howling outside my room at 5:44am.
I thought that, after a long weekend away, she’d missed us and wanted a bed to sleep on and needed a way to negotiate the plethora of closed doors that stopped her from doing so. But then I noticed that she wasn’t on my landing; rather, she was stranded on the roof of my porch. Apparently cats have middle-class problems too.
Knowing that she’d keep me up if I did nothing about it, I knew I had to act. But this required going through my dad’s room, waking the bewildered old git up, and then letting her in through his window. If only it was that easy.
It transpires that, in her old age, my cat can no longer make the jump from the porch roof to window. Now I had to fetch a step ladder for her to climb up. When I lowered it down out of the window, she blankly sat where I wanted to put the bloody thing. I slowly lowered it on top of her thinking, logically, that my feline fiend would think to get out of its way. Instead, as I lowered it onto her head, she lay underneath the ladder. For some time.
When I relayed this story to my mother later that morning, she told me that she had seen the cat pop her head over the low roof of the adjoining extension when she was watering the hanging baskets. When she asked the cat to get down, the cat simply jumped onto the shed and climbed down. Apparently the bastard could get off the roof from the very beginning.
As I continue to acclimatise myself with being ‘that guy’ on campus who spends most of his time alone with his cat, I’m sure the tales of backpacking around Thailand, Camp America, or ‘Napa 2k14 are full of STI’s and disappointment anyway.
Then again, at least I’m not as bored as a certain York man, James Vincent. Recently, he spent his time ‘revealing himself’ to female staff in six stores at the York Designer Outlet, recently telling that magistrate that he ‘got a rush’ from it. I get a rush from shouting at kids on mopeds and enjoying a triple at Stone Roses with a game of table football with the next round of drinks at stake – but I don’t get banned from York’s favourite Britpop bar for three years for it.
Mr Vincent will also go on a Sex Offenders Treatment Programme, which I presume consists of sitting him in a garage waiting room while he tries not to open the pile of gentlemen’s magazines on the table, as well as three years’ probation, 150 hours of unpaid work, being charged £145 and put on the sex offenders register for five years. Now that is a noteworthy level of boredom. Albeit for all the wrong reasons.
Meanwhile, back in my world, far away from any shopping centre, I’ve run out of UK Border Force to watch on Sky Living. Shit.