I press ‘add to basket’ and spend £42.99 that I certainly don’t have. But need money matter in the pursuit of love?

Everyday I refresh my email, all my limbs crossed hoping that it has finally arrived. It takes over two weeks, but my faith never falters... I was rewarded for my loyalty, after only 17 days, with a beautiful white slip of paper in my pigeon hole. I scampered to Plodge, visibly struggling to contain my excitement. 

I signed my name in the post book, and received the glossy parcel the porter handed to me all too slowly. I couldn’t bear waiting any longer, but I forced myself to sprint back up to my room so my first moment with the contents of my parcel would be alone, without interruption.

Breathless, I fumbled for my keys, eventually forcing my way into my room. I tore at the plastic, revealing another layer of protection. I giggled maniacally, ripping the envelope to finally reveal the contents.

My light blue fleece.

"I was grateful for this fresh way to flex all over my new acquaintances"

The item most capable of vanquishing imposter syndrome. I slid my arms down its fluffy interior and pulled it over my head. I looked in the mirror with glee. It was far too long and incredibly tight at the top (thanks Playerlayer), but it didn’t matter at all. I hugged myself, feeling so grateful for this fresh way to flex all over my new acquaintances.

I’d like to think I’m in the majority for the affection I have for stash; there’s not a single first year I know who hasn’t ordered one of our college puffers, and the college jumpers at Ryders and Amies were sold out when I tried to get one in my very first week. I even know one girl who joined power-lifting society just to get the fleece.

Why do we love stash? Not to be bleak, but I’m pretty sure we cover ourselves in badges, crests and names to assure ourselves we’re actually meant to be here.