Amy Gibbons: No Shits Gibbon

Image: Harriet Cheshire

Image: Harriet Cheshire

In the week that Richard Ayoade was tipped to be hosting the new Bake Off on Channel 4; Trump and Clinton had another brutal public scrap; and a gorilla escaped from London Zoo and drank five litres of undiluted blackcurrant squash, I consumed most of a bottle of wine, two Graham Nortons and a pint of Somersby, and said my goodbyes to Nouse.

Yes, back to me, and to this paper. Sorry. When I mentioned to Chris (outgoing Editor) I’d like to write my second column on Life After Nouse, he made a very good point: “Amy, isn’t that sort of inevitable?” All life is now Life After Nouse, after all. What a thought.

It’s hard to leave a society, especially when you’ve been invested in its progress and people for so long. Nouse is much like a second family, and having joined only in my first term at York moving on from the paper has been much like leaving home and starting over. So, in a way, I feel like a nervous fresher again. A fresher, that is, with a disgusting amount of 18th century travel fiction, advanced level German poetry and an 8000 word dissertation on Dickens to tackle.

On handing my office key back to YUSU, I experienced an extremely sentimental few moments – noticing briefly my signature on the sign out sheet from October 2015, the reality of the year just gone came crashing down on me. I’ve neglected my degree to almost criminal lengths; I’ve spent 32 hours on the trot laying up News and Sport in an office reeking of Pot Noodles; and I’ve been to Dusk with the team approximately 217,000 times. I forgot about Mother’s Day, I missed at least four supervisor meetings, and I still don’t know what post-structuralism is.

The memories I’ve made, and the people I’ve met, however, have completely changed my life. If I try to picture a moment that stands out to me particularly, there’s one image that immediately springs to mind, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been privy to something incredibly special.

The moment in question was in our fifth Production Week, when we were moved into Vanbrugh briefly while our office in Grimston House was redecorated. It was the week of URY’s 101 hour marathon in Greg’s Place, and I was perched on a window seat in the Vanbrugh SCR next door to our temporary home, writing the front page story. Peering out of the window I could see the lake lit up in more colours than I could count, and by opening it a fraction I could hear the hoarse voices of the radio team trying desperately to excite people about the fifth replay of Justin Bieber’s ‘Sorry’, which summed up their sentiments perfectly.

As the music made the window panes creak, I felt suddenly completely exhausted, and completely at home; and I knew despite the growing concern that I was more caffeine and sugar than woman, I was doing something I loved entirely.

Then glancing briefly back at my story to see I had a further 500 words to add, I was brought quite violently back down to Earth.

Gotta love a sentimental column. Next time I’ll probably either be musing over the inevitable demise of Marmite and Kit Kats post-Brexit (RIP), or busy burning in the post-apocalyptic hell left in the wake of Trump’s election. So a lot to look forward to. Best of luck with your mid-term procedurals, and let me know if you spot a general zest for life – because I think I left mine at the bottom of that £5 Cava on Tuesday night.

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