It’s no big secret that the last two years have been a shock to the system. Cast into times most unprecedented, not a single one of us could have foreseen any of it, any of the madness that ensued after those five words changed our lives forever. YOU MUST STAY AT HOME. My hypothetical grandchildren simply would not believe the sad truth of police shooing civilians away from park benches, that ‘DO NOT ENTER’ tape was wrapped around deserted playgrounds like a grisly crime scene, that we had to queue outside supermarkets as if their harshly lit aisles were the most surreal VIP area, filled with arrowed pathways and polite-but-firm…
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Confessions of a Lonely Twenty-Something
Your twenties are meant to be some of the best years of your life. At least, that’s how they’ve been sold to us. You’re not restricted to a classroom or library or the clutches of a looming exam or coursework deadline. You’re free of any ‘real’ responsibility, not tied down by marriages or mortgages or children clamouring for your attention. The world is your oyster! You’ll hear. Oh, what I’d give to be in my twenties again! To have that body, that social life, all that free time! What they won’t tell you, is how fucking lonely it is.
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2019 – The Year of the Kid in the Candy Store
2018 was a bit crap. There’s no poetic or poignant way to put that, really. Only sharp, abrupt honesty that a year I went into with wide-eyed optimism did not turn out to be the 365 days of glory and joy and sheer perfection that I’d been dreaming of. It wasn’t all bad, of course. As with every year, good or bad, I learned some valuable lessons that will inevitably continue to shape my twenties as the past few have.
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In Defence Of Being Visible
I am happy with myself. I have flaws and insecurities, as every person does, but I wouldn’t change who I am, even if I could. This is not glowing self-praise, nor blatant narcissism, but it still feels rather strange and alien to declare that I am happy with myself as a human being. It’s been so ingrained into my mind now that I must preface every compliment I give myself with a quick self-deprecating jab to remind myself (and to assure others) not to seem uppity or conceited. Isn’t that bizarre? Is it not a strikingly forlorn habit that distancing yourself from your own kindness has become so normalised?
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The Valentine’s Chronicles
My first Valentine’s Day of any significance happened when I was at primary school. I must have been ten or eleven years old, and was shyly handed an envelope at school, by a boy named Martin, before he dashed off in an embarrassed, awkward hurry. Back then, I was a very different me to the girl, woman, I am today – this was in the days of bootcut jeans, tracksuit tops and mousy brown hair. Before dark dye, before my daily ritual of false eyelashes and overdrawn lips, and before I’d had my heart bruised and broken by a string of different boys.
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2018 : Here’s To The Unknown
2017, for me, was a year of learning. Of growth. Of risks.
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Long Live The Storytellers
Eat, sleep, work, repeat. That’s how my mornings feel, sometimes.
