In the morning, I am leaving the place I have called home for the past nine months.
My room has certainly been a good one. I've kept it in good nick, and I have been rewarded with a place to study, a place to eat, a place to socialise, or a place to feel lonely without being alone1. I have seen rain, heat, mud. I have seen guys, girls, families. I have seen it all through my well-placed window. I have slept in a bed angled very peculiarly but aesthetically pleasingly. A little almost-hidden - erm, let's call it a trunk - has been a place to keep my secrets and my beliefs. I have been satisfied with what I have been provided, and that's to say the least. To say the most is impossible.
I'm coming back. But not for two months. And I'll be upstairs. Not nearly as good as the first room.
I can say I've lost my Chisholm-ginity in this room, I guess...
1quite possibly one of the best feelings in the world, but only if you deliberately set out to achieve it.