Sheffield is pies. Smudged eyeliner on a school night, Corp shoes stuck under strobe lights, wet floors and wet tights. Climbing hills on rainy nights, every night. It’s love from the mouths of strangers, Varsity-fuelled rages where the world spins yellow and black. It’s a 3 year Artic Monkeys backing track to gravied chips and chapped lips, and Saturday nights at Pop Tarts where I should probably feel embarassed but I’m not. Dancing until the room gets too hot and we spill back out onto damp streets. 24 hours in the IC and I can’t track the day, 24 hours in The Crucible, bleary-eyed learning steps to a charity musical and I couldn’t place the week. But the way that heels squeak on stage boards has me too wired to sleep yet. And the buses won’t be running, because I just felt snow. So it’s back up another hill with a Steam Yard doughnut and a coffee to go to keep my hands thawed. Up Conduit, ice-thick. Wishing we’d grabbed a house quicker; because driving us up to see it was a trick. This road is long. But my friends are in, my best ones. That I can text to stick the oven on when I need pastry drenched in Hendo’s, stat. And then it’s another year in a different flat. And it’s Weston Park leaning back in the grass with a mass order of Falafal King wraps. And some days I just walk past Firth Court and I feel lucky. ‘Cause I made the right choice. And as the music goes quiet, I realise that my voice is louder now. My passions are stronger. And though I wish I could sit in Interval garden a bit longer, I can feel how much I’ve learned. From tutors, but more from friends. And I take them with me. So even now as I go, though the clouds are always grey here, through them I still know that the sky is so bright.