It’s been five years since I moved back to London, after nearly a decade away studying.
In five years I have, variously:
- Lived in seven different places, in five postcodes
- Held seven (possibly eight?) different job titles
- Lived with fourteen people, two cats and one invisible man
- Met my soulmate, and fallen in love
- Bought a computer and lots of other geeky gadgetry
- Owned six domains
- Given up some bad habits
- Taken up others
- Paid somewhere in the region of £30K in rent
- Changed every item in my wardrobe, except a ribbed black (now grey) T shirt which I borrowed from my mate Adam in uni in 1994, and never got around to returning
- Written for three national newspapers
- Appeared on Radio 4. Twice.
- Lost three holes in my head
- Went from being able to carry my world on my back on a train from the North to fully furnishing a house
- Done some things I never ever thought I would do, including
- Got a mobile phone
- Had a manicure
- Regularly
- Had a panic attack
- Stood in front of four hundred people and spoke with conviction and without nerves
- Cooked salmon in a dishwasher
- Eaten in a private members club
- Been promoted four times
- Worn heels out of choice
- Partied in a comedian’s Soho apartment until dawn
- Fallen in and out of love with this mad, ginormous, ugly, smelly, expensive, stunning, exhilerating, unbelievable city again and again and again.
Can I have a rest now?
I’m sorry, I’m just a little weirded out by it all.
