And I'm off...

This is the part I was dreading, no matter how I tell this I always feel awful. I’m about to prove that despite all appearances I am indeed a flighty moron.

Another bus ride and I’m back on campus. I go straight to my room and pull out a kettle which I plug into the socket above my desk. I know that technically I’m not meant to cook things in my room, especially not bacon and not with curling irons (I’m kidding, I own no curling irons.) but me and Vikkie have always watched “Frasier” and had tea and hobnobs, ever since they gave us free periods at school. (Independent study? Please I did enough of that in lessons) so it just seems natural to have tea here instead of in the kitchen like a peer-pressure sheep person.
I flip the kettle on and as it boils I add hot chocolate to my Eddie Izzard “Cake or Death” mug. I put the DVD into my lap top and place it on the bed, then wrap myself in my duvet and put on my jogging bottoms (never used for jogging) and some pink and white fluffy socks. Bliss.
I add the water to the mug and stir vigorously, then add the free packet of marshmallows that came with it. While my laptop warms up I take out the magazine and begin to flip through.
Normally I don’t buy magazines, barring the one spiritual/eco monthly that I actually enjoy reading. But sometimes when I’m feeling affluent and girly, I do buy fashion magazines. Sometimes I buy them for less moral reasons, as it turns out that anything stuck to the front of one looks like a free gift (apparently not Danish pastries, but your luck could be better than mine).
I bypass the contents page (it’s a magazine not the encyclopaedia) and graze the pages for interesting things like attractive products and films to watch (online naturally - I would pay for that kind of thing). As I near the back of the magazine something catches my eye. It’s an article about an island, rating it for tourism, on which it scores pretty low on account of having no hotels or even a proper pub. This isn’t the interesting thing however. At the end of the article there is a small blue box which is advertising the island to potential residents.
It turns out that much of the small, but stunning, Scottish island is given over to larger fields that were intended for agricultural crofts (yeah, I don’t know either), but that these crofts (apparently an old English word for land on which someone lives and farms) had recently been opened up to any business and prospective entrepreneur.
For a moment I just stare at the page in disbelief, and then I open up the internet on my laptop and begin to type furiously. Never mind that I have no business to start up, or that, like it or not I am currently a university student, I just have to see this. Google opens up onto the webpage and another stunning view of a totally deserted beach running up to a hill clad in rough turf and clumps of wild grasses. I click through links until I find the right one. My heart just about stops for a whole twelve seconds.
£40,000
That is not, as you might expect the cost of the land, or even a laughably high rent. That is the amount of money that they are willing to pay you to live there. I read the rest of the text and phrases jump out at me.
…Extra grant money for renovations to current domicile…
…Exceedingly low rent at £2,000 pounds yearly…
…Grants for business start up…
I forget about the film, and the buffer, and my room. I drink my hot chocolate and eat the chocolates in lieu of dinner. I stay up until ten, typing and researching and adding things up on excel. Finally I stop, fingers aching and probably forever marked with confused layers of letter shaped bruises. A sheaf of paper comes out of the printer, black with type. Hours of work, hours and I have come to one startling, shining conclusion.
I can do this.
You can’t do this.
The little voice whispers even as I grab things from my wardrobe and shake the contents of my bag onto the bed. But I can do this; I’m doing it right now.
I snatch up clean underwear and a T-shirt and then change into jeans and another T-shirt. Travelling clothes. My wash bag is still packed from life on the dorm and I add it to the pile, followed by my new book and a plastic wallet containing all my precious information about the island. I stow all this neatly in my sleek purple crocodile bag feeling suddenly adventurous and excited. I grab the last few things that I need - my purse, MP3 player and mobile.
It’s still quite cold outside, being winter and all, so I pull on a knee length thick knit scarf and my long denim jacket. Then I write a hurried note to Vikkie saying that I would be back before the end of winter break and asking her not to worry, and pinned it to the door.
By this time it was well and truly night. The club going students had already left and those who, like me, favoured sleep had already turned in. I walked down the hall and out of the door, then across the clipped grass and sandstone of the courtyard. I took a last look at the enormous red brick building, soaking in the sight of it. Then turned and walked down the dark street.
I took the late night campus bus then walked to the train station. The bright fluorescents made it seem like day. I drew out some of my bursary cash and consulted a tired ticket vendor on the best way to get to where I was going. While I waited, hideously expensive ticket in hand, I realised I was famished and bought a sushi selection from the mini-Sainsbury’s by the platform. When the train arrived I got into an empty carriage and placed my book and food on the plastic table in my booth. The train rolled away with a hiss of closing doors.
It had all happened so fast, the trouble was that on the long train journey, I had time to think it over and realise how crazy I was being. Ok, so I wasn’t going to miss work or school because I was on holiday and meant to be visiting my family. That didn’t make what I was doing ok. In the last twelve hours I had broken down in tears, made a rash of impulse buys and then decided to travel across the country to an island populated by roughly fourteen people. What was I going to do then?
What was I going to do then?
Eventually I distracted myself from my dilemma by reading my book, but unfortunately the story took a turn for the all too familiar when the heroine left her marriage and impulsively bought a house in France. I closed the novel, disgusted that I was having a midlife crisis at the tender age of eighteen.
At that moment my phone rang, filling the carriage with a tinny rendition of “Hit me with your best shot”. Sighing I delved into my bag and flipped it open.
“Where the hell are you?” growled Vikkie.
Yes she does indeed growl, I got a little adjective happy over this bit, but then it is important. Also if I make her look like the Wild Woman of Borneo you’re less likely to judge me. So yes, I’m on a train to (gasp) the north, only really I’m at home on the island I’m about to arrive at.....yeah that makes sense. Next time I’ll try to describe it to you, or at least upload some pictures.