Roehampton - This Is For You

This is my first post as a normal person. I am no longer a student. I am a graduate. Or, as I’m going to have to start admitting to on forms and suchlike, unemployed.

It’s a curious sensation. Despite the fact that this is my first day as a normal adult inhabitant of this country, I’m startlingly aware that I don’t have the support net that is university life anymore. When I first started university after doing two years of A-Levels followed by a pretty chilled out gap year at home, university seemed to me like an explosion of independence and opportunity the likes of which I’d never encountered before. I lived in a hall of residence comprised entirely of people under 21, could cook (or, more often, heat up) whatever I liked for dinner, could wake up ten minutes before any given engagement and still be there on time and never had to worry about drink driving. It was even refreshing to be told off for being “a lightweight pussy” when suffering the hangover from hell instead of being berated for being on the brink of alcoholism by a parent who considers spending time at real ale festivals a worthwhile pastime. I definitely wasn’t alone in experiencing this new lease of life away from parents, teachers and any other adult I ever had to ask permission to do something from; it never occurred to me that, at the age of nineteen and a half, I was pretty much an adult myself. Now, three academic years on and suffering the consequences of my last university night out ever as I write, I’ve realised that whilst all of the above is true there is a degree of dependence to being a student that goes unnoticed. My beautiful interest-free student overdraft is being turned into a gradually diminishing graduate overdraft. The possibility of having a social engagement every hour of every day (or night) if I so wish has disappeared due to the doubly problematic situation of a) my mates having to get proper jobs now and b) having to move back into my parents’ house because I haven’t managed to get one of these proper jobs yet. Even just the comfortable knowledge of certain constants that are no longer there – that I will spend several days of each term feverishly writing essays that I started far too late, that I’ll always know someone serving in the bar, or that there will always be approximately twenty mates within walking distance of wherever I am at any given time – surrounded me in a happy little bubble of contentment, shielding me from the reality of life outside of uni that everyone knows about but refuses to consider until they’ve handed in their final assignment. You just never realise how quickly three years will pass away until they have.

So far, so pretty much every university in Britain. But the thing that makes university so amazing is that wherever you go, even if you only went there because it was the only establishment to offer you a place through Clearing, by the end of your first Freshers’ Week you will hold the firm and never-ending belief that you go to the best university in the world. The reasons behind this belief will never make sense to anybody that wasn’t there at the same time as you, but that’s fine. Roehampton, taking all the benefits of a collegiate system and disregarding the hierarchical elitism that is often perceived to define certain other collegiate universities, lives up to this sentiment. It was apparent from my first day that nobody gave a flying fanny what grades anyone got at school or how much money you had as long as you weren’t too much of a knob. My own Freshers’ Week passed in a blur of alcohol consumption, preparatory ballet classes and the confused negotiation of a campus where you never feel as though you’re walking in the right direction to anything. I discovered that you can make better friends with people just by living with them for three days than I did from five years of secondary education together, and that it’s possible to have an inordinate amount of fun in what is essentially a school hall at night with a temporary bar. My floor rep was absolutely quality. As well as dishing out invaluable advice, like how to get to Asda and how to deal with breaking up with a long-distance boyfriend, I am proud to say that we were once escorted home from the Bop in Jon Foley’s car, where she was so pissed I had to take out her contacts lenses and put her to bed whilst I, for some unknown reason, thought it would be a great idea to sleep on her floor... in the room next door to mine. Being a dance student herself, she gave me the low-down on the lecturers, the modules and how to avoid being any of the horrific dance student stereotypes that became apparent as lessons progressed. Probably most importantly, she got me involved in the Roehampton Players.

I have mentioned the Players before. They are the society to which I have devoted three years of Sunday rehearsals, committee meetings in the bar, entire afternoons putting up posters and hours upon hours of painting sets. For them I have relinquished all possible qualms about getting sweaty and unattractive in front of lots of people, have pretty much prostituted myself to get people to buy tickets, have spent entire birthdays rehearsing until the early hours and have managed to successfully perform a run of a show in which I was required to pull off fourteen costume changes. Through this society I have met people I’ve got a huge amount of respect, admiration and downright love for, and without sounding sickeningly thespian about the entire thing, I literally don’t know what my uni days would have been without them. There is no other situation where it is acceptable to spend a well-earned break singing along unashamedly to selections from Les Miserable or, during a duet that that to the audience demonstrates sexual tension that could be cut with a knife, to be considerably more concerned that you’re sweating like a pig on heat under the lights and might get dropped on your head because your partner can’t get a good grip to lift you properly. I’m completely grateful to have had the opportunity to realise that, despite popular opinion, it’s perfectly possible to do a quite astounding amount of drugs and still pull of a brilliant performance. On a more selfish point, I’m also very grateful that if it weren’t for permanent rehearsals I’d probably be the size of a hippo by now, and would go as far as saying that I’m concerned for my dress size now that I don’t dance about twenty hours a week. It’s impossible to say everything I could say about this, or to mention anyone individually because I would literally be here until I’d mentioned everyone I’ve ever performed with. All I will say is this (and please forgive me if you’re reading this and aren’t particularly down with outrageous statements of luvvie affection): working and performing with the Players has made my time at Roe, and if I don’t get to see you all again very soon then my life will be a little bit worse because of it. Oh, and one more thing – 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LET’S ALL HAVE A DISCO, LALALALA WHEYYY, LALALALA WHEYYY!!!! Phoebe and Hose – three years – I salute you.

So what else will I miss? This is a difficult question as I could ramble on for pages and already have. But for my own personal enjoyment, I'm just going to reminisce a little more... The Belfry, with it's shit chairs and fairy lights, and our winning Frigby legacy on the walls... Frigby itself, where it is acceptable for grown adults to drunkenly hurl buckets of water at each other whilst watching other grown adults play football... bus rides back from Fez or the Grand singing outrageously rude (but entirely accurate) songs about Froebel... chilling out on Digby lawn in the empty days after Easter whilst making sure you're not lying in goose shit... Toby Bennett telling me to "be a DIAMOND!!!!! You're a DIAMOND FAIRY, not a MARSHMALLOW FAIRY!!!!"... Mamma's pizza... waiting on the steps outside Jubilee for security to open up the rehearsal space... Oh Christ. I'm getting emotional.

The trouble with good things is that they always have to end. The trick to overcoming this is to always have a good thing within your sights. I'm never going to be able to hold on to absolutely everything I treasure from university. But if I make sure I keep the important bits, and the important people, close by... I'm pretty sure I'll find a new venture to keep me happy and the banter flowing. This is indispensible advice for when you leave university - remember it.

Small Interlude

So I haven't written a new post for ages, and for that I apologise. I have been a busy bee. Since the end of the Easter holidays about 6 weeks ago I've been in rehearsal for two separate shows and also trying (and failing) to sort my life out to the extent that I'm not an unemployed waster this time next week when I'll be snivelling into a pillow because my university life is over.

And that's probably what I'm going to ramble on about today. See, the musical I'm performing in this week is all about uni... my uni... and as sad as it sounds, when the run is over tomorrow night it's gonna hit home pretty hard that after three years of laughs, drinks, banter, all-nighters, shows and arguments over the washing up it's all going to end and I'm going to be released into society and expected to stop doing all the things that made the last 3 years so completely epic and unforgettable. When I left Sixth Form I was completely ready to leave and wasn't massively bothered about missing my mates because they were all either having a gap year as well or would be home every holiday. I just thought that leaving uni would be the same. But with me headed back to the Shire, whilst most of my mates are either still at uni or staying living in London, it's hardly like we can meet up for a pint on a random night. And this makes me very sad :(

It's also the end of having such easy access to performing, whether it's dancing in Jazz Hands or hurling myself about in every possible way with the Roehampton Players. I've been rehearsing for something or other almost every week of term since October, and literally don't know what I'm going to do without several classes and rehearsals a week to keep me perky, and, more importantly, able to drink as much cider as possible without gaining about 20 stone. It's also slightly upsetting that the majority of the people I've met through shows this year are still going to be at uni next year, meaning I'm going to be insanely jealous of the good times ahead that I'm not having...

Having said that, I'm pant-wettingly excited about going travelling with Bell in January. Based entirely on whether someone deigns to employ me, obviously. I'm leaving good times behind, but then there should be some amazing ones ahead - how can there not be when you combine two mates, a campervan, some sun and an open road? Ha, cheeeeeese... but so true. As sad as it is to leave behind such awesome mates and memories, there's always new ones to be made.