A bottle of Cotes du Rhone...

A bottle of Cotes du Rhone is going down nicely. My room is a tip: I'm surrounded by dregs of coffee, an empty bottle of port, shedloads of pieces of paper, bags of rubbish in which there is probably a banana skin rotting somewhere, dirty clothes; the list goes on. I feel like I could be a true artist living in this chaos. Still, I am not a true artist, and if I was actually going to do anything seriously mentally demanding in the next few days I would certainly have to tidy this place up first. I'm listening to Late Junction on Radio 3 as well, which enhances my sense of being an artistic bohemian. I have just listened to a track called "Mop Head". I feel very worn down recently.

I've done very little today: the standard appointment of choir rehearsal was kept, but beyond that all I did was pop in to university to register provisionally for next year. My final year at university. Only four modules to go. How scary is that? Earlier I watched the Alan Clark Diaries on BBC2. It was very amusing once again; me and my flatmates were sat identically to this time last week. Go and check.

I came to my little laptop full of thoughts about what to write, full of enthusiasm about how worthwhile discussion and expression is. But, as so often happens, now that the keyboard is within my power, I do not particularly want to write anything. I can still remember what I was going to say, but of a sudden it seems monumentally irrelevant. Nothing really seems relevant at this moment in time. In fact, at this precise second, absolutely nothing seems to carry any significance at all, which is both destabilising and refreshing. Now and then I, as I'm sure everyone does, think back to how things were a few years ago. Personally, I mean, not cosmically. I came to university with so many high hopes and ideals about what grand and successful course my life was going to take. The experience itself has taught me valuable lessons about being more realistic. But at the same time I am reminded of the solitude and disillusionment that these lessons inevitably produce.

On the one hand, I have never been happier. All my dreams have been fulfilled in the last couple of years. I have a stable, mutual, intelligent, communicative relationship with someone that I love more deeply day by day. But on the other hand, this is precisely the problem. Things are so wonderful that they can never live up to the ideal in my mind — the ideal that is essentially based in a much more teenage, angsty, depressive mode of thinking. The fact is I'm still an immature teenager deep down, and my most ideal relationship is probably one with my own self-absorption. I don't think I've matured enough really to say that I've gone beyond that. Perhaps I'm being too harsh on myself; perhaps I'm just talking nonsense.

There's just something missing here. In spite of all the problems I had at home, and in spite of how much I hated school, there is still something uniquely homely about home. This is not home yet. I still get the urge to go back to Leicester where, for no real reason, I just feel more secure. I miss my old friends. I miss my old, teenage, angsty, idealist's dreams. It probably just comes down to the fact that I'm not quite ready to grow up yet.