Leaving and Leaving You

Well, today was the day that I left home. I don't move in until tomorrow, but if I weren't already up here, I'd have to get up at stupid o'clock tomorrow to get here in time to move in, which would immediately put me in a bad place to be meeting new people. I mean, people would end up realising that I actually mean what I say and am a cantankerous old man in a 19 year old's body, instead of just being a sarcastic, if slightly caustic, young man.

You see, that's how I make friends. I try to be as pleasant and quiet as possible for the first couple of weeks, and then when I finally reveal my inner bastard, people think I'm just being funny. If and when they ever discover that I'm not joking, they're normally too emotionally invested that it would be socially awkward to back out of the interaction.

By the way, that technique is patent pending.

Anyway, I left the Home Shire today and headed up north, slowly feeling my tongue lose the ability to pronounce the word 'the' at some point between Junctions 22 and 23 of the M1. I was packed into the back of the car, all but sitting on top of my printer and suitcase. Packing up all my worldly possessions into the car sent me into a bit of a panic attack, but the hyperventilating disappeared at around the same time as 'the', so by the time we got to the M1 Services, I was able to get out and grab a round of coffees without my hands shaking so hard that I threw it all over myself.

We were driving up, steadily approaching Yorkshire along the motorway, and I decided that I wanted to get a picture of a sign saying 'Welcome to Yorkshire'. Other counties have them, so I thought it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to suppose that Yorkshire would.

Turns out that it was. The first thing you have to learn is that Yorkshire doesn't like Southeners, and so don't want to welcome you if you're coming from the South. I haven't come from the other direction, but I've no doubt there are golden gates and a heavenly chorus for everyone who enters from Durham.

However, I did see other signs. All the way up, you have signposts for 'The North'. This scared me somewhat. 'The North' sounds rather ominous, doesn't it? "Now entering 'The North'. Abandon all hope." Naturally, this impression is not an accurate representation of the North. These signs that seem to imply a Mordorian wasteland filled with wandering tribes of nomads who will charge and attack at the sight of something red is completely fallacious. They're actually provoked by any colour.

But I'm here now, staying the night with relatives in Barnsley and studiously avoiding making eye contact with any locals. Tomorrow I soldier on to York, storming the city and moving into a room where I can touch all four walls when standing in the middle.

On, on, on, on, to the breach, to the breach...