This time last year, stood on the front porch of a small (but respectable) north London flat, I was giddy with excitement. After living at home for a year during the height of the pandemic, I was finally, permanently, flying the nest, moving in with three of my closest university friends also making the big move for the first time.
Moving day was a frenzy of endless suitcases, stacks of books and far too many plants as we feverishly ran around collecting various appliances from Facebook marketplace and Gumtree. It was typically chaotic but it was perfect — after a year of tragedy and isolation, we couldn’t believe how lucky we were to all be in a position to move out and begin the Everything I Know About Love chapter of our twenties. We even had a dishwasher.
