Okay, so my new English GCSE tutor has given the class the most condescending homework I've ever been given - I'm almost twenty years old now, and a 500 word essay about my perfect holiday to act as some kind of gauge of my writing skills is borderline offensive. Regardless of the insult, I've written something anyway.
My 'dream holiday' would be an excursion from the weekly dull rigours of college life, which has long ceased to provide any challenge or stimulation. Day after day I'm asked to study information I already know, to compare poems of no relevance or interest to me in a handheld fashion that discourages personal discovery in favour of "academia". I would use the week away from my academic life to book a small hotel room in Paris or Helsinki with my partner, alternating between taking in the local customs and culture - wine and art in France, or Northern Lights and sleigh rides in Finland - to getting back in touch with my own creative roots.
I'd take a small collection of classic literature; a translation of the definitive Faust by Goethe, as much of the acidic, sharp wit of Oscar Wilde as I could possibly fit in my suitcase, contrasted with the melancholy mental meanderings of the solitary scribe, Edgar Allen Poe. With nothing but a pen and paper at my disposal, I would spend the evenings inspired by some of the greatest writers I've ever read, and finally exercise my own poetic muscles once more, painting paper with ink as I have not had the time to do in months.
In essence, it would be a getaway from my academic life, to better my creative life. I would dine on cuisine I'd yet to try - but not in Helsinki, because a traditional Finnish dish is raw reindeer genitalia. In France, I would try all the wine they had to offer, and try my best to experience every museum, gallery, and theatre.
-unfinished-
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