I had finally run out of excuses. For months, Annie had been hounding me to come visit them, and each time I had miraculously managed to find reason after reason why I couldn't go and stay with them. "I'd love to, Annie," I'd say down the phone to her, my tone partially patronising as I blatantly lied to her. I didn't even feel bad about it. Sure, Annie was supposed to be family, but that didn't mean I wanted to spend time with her. "But I have an essay to write and I need to be holed up in the library." Annie didn't need to know that I had no assignments due, or the fact that I hadn't visited the campus library since my second year, not since the entire library database had been uploaded online and I could access it through the comfort of my own living room. Or "It's so kind of you to invite me up, but Harvey's grandmother has just died and he really needs me right now. Another time though?" Again, Annie wasn't to know that both of Harvey's grandmothers were still alive and kicking, despite being well into their nineties, or that I had split up with him three months ago. Then there was "Sunetra is off sick and I have to cover", or "I have a doctor's appointment," or "The boiler has broken and I've got to wait for the gasman to fix it."

Annie didn't believe me, I'm sure of it. But she never scolded me, never told me to stop lying. She was too desperate to be my friend; too desperate for my approval. Instead she'd just sigh and go "That's such a shame, Naomi," her voice completely sincere, "we were really looking forward to see you. Felix misses you. We all do." And I'd have to swallow down a scoff and promise that next time I'd try and make it.

And unfortunately that time had come. Annie had called last night whilst I was packing, claiming to be checking what time my train was due in at York station, but I knew she was making sure I hadn't somehow found an excuse not to go. And I had tried to find a reason, but instead I came up blank. I had no excuse, no lie, not this time. The only thing that could stop me having to endure a week of mundane chitchat with my father and Annie was if I was hit by a bus on the way to the train station. And in all honesty, I was desperately praying for that to happen, because although I got on with my family, it was easier to like them when I lived in London and they lived in Yorkshire and I didn't have to be cooped up in a small country cottage with them.

I was booked on the 15.54 train from London Saint Pancras to York, and despite the fact that I was 24 years old, I spent all morning sulking at the prospect of a full week of limited mobile signal, no wifi access and having to bond with Annie and Felix, because according to my father, I needed to try harder and be nicer to them. In fact, according to the last conversation I had with my dad, seven weeks ago, I needed to be nicer to everyone. Apparently I was too unfriendly, too apathetic, too passive aggressive, which all resulted in me being unable to hold a stable relationship. In other words, I was a heartless bitch, but that was something I was already well aware of, so his words didn't bother me. I had been called a lot worse, both to my face and behind my back. And, as I pointed out to him, if he hadn't been off "shagging everything that happened to have a pulse, and spent a bit more time with me as a child, I might have turned out a little bit nicer."

I really didn't want to go and see them. Annie was nice, I suppose, but she was just so annoying. Every time she phoned me, I had to grit my teeth and force a smile and pretend to be interested in the boring little life that she happened to share with my Dad. This week was going to push me to the limit. It wasn't going to end well, I knew it wasn't. I just couldn't hold my tongue and smile and nod and um and ah about things. I had to make spiteful comments and stir situations and make things awkward and horrible for people, because that was just the sort of person I was.

But when it got to three o'clock, I dutifully put on my coat and boots and grabbed my bags, stumbling slightly under the weight of my small holdall. Sure, I was only going away for a week, but I had ended up packing at least two options of clothing for each day, several woolly jumpers - because North Yorkshire was practically an Arctic wasteland - and an abundance of underwear. I paused in front of the mirror next to my front door, checking my hair and makeup until I deemed myself completely presentable, before opening the door. And immediately began cursing at the deluge of rain pouring out of the sky.

I hovered on the front step, trying to balance my bags, lock my door and dodge the drops of rain falling heavily. Like an idiot, I hadn't bothered to pack my umbrella, despite the fact that it nearly always rained in North Yorkshire. Already, the small path up to the steps that lead to the pavement had been turned into a river. I smiled bitterly, regretting the fact that I lived in a basement flat. I ran up the stairs, trying not to step into the puddles forming and opened the gate at the top. I glanced up and down the road, desperately trying to find a cab. Normally, I would have walked to the tube, but I was wearing my Stella Jean coat that had cost me nearly a month's pay and I really did not want to get it wet. So I scoured the street, hoping that a black cab would suddenly appear.

And, as if by magic, one just happened to pull up on the other side of the road. Sure, there was a pregnant woman who had also noticed it, and who had begun to edge closer to it, but she was a good 500 meters away and all I had to do was cross the road and slide into it. Maybe I should have been polite and let her have it, but I didn't. After all, I had a train to catch.

So I stepped out into the road. And then bam. Blackness.

In my desperation for the taxi, I had failed to notice the bus until about a second before it hit me. And by then, it was too late.

I remember someone screaming. I remember the rain pouring down on me. And I remember thinking that it was going to be bloody hard to get the stains out of my coat, and if it had been ripped, I was going to murder the bus driver. Then there was nothing. I'm not sure how long I was out cold for, but the next time I opened my eyes, I was most definitely not in London anymore.

Nope. London did not look so bright. Or green. There was so much green that for a moment, I thought I was back home in Yorkshire. But the grass looked a lot more vivid than I remembered it being, like I was seeing the world through a HD lens, whereas in Yorkshire, due to the constant drizzle of rain that filtered through the moors, the landscape looked a lot duller.

Slowly, I sat up. I was in a field. In the middle of nowhere. "Fuck," I muttered, freezing as someone chuckled at my coarse language. Up until this point, I had assumed I was alone. Eyes wide, I turned around.

"Ah, Miss Ainsley," the voice said. A voice, I slowly realised, which belonged to an old man, who was wearing a grey cloak and pointed hat. All I could do was stare silently at him, suddenly feeling very disorientated. "I've been waiting for you. You've got an adventure to go on.

Author's Note 1: I've really been intrigued with the idea of placing an OC character who is slightly antagonistic within the Middle Earth world. I want a character who is unwilling to help, cutting with her remarks, and generally disdainful towards most. Enter Naomi Ainsley, my OC character who is hopefully the right balance of sarcasm, sass and bitchiness.

Author's Note 2: Within my story, the films do not exist. That said, the plotline will be following the films, because I am a bad person who hasn't gotten round to reading the book yet. And I figured, having a completely new character enter Middle Earth would alter events slightly.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hobbit.