1. Firstly for Macmillan and great cause worth donating to. *SHAMELESS PLUG* donate here.
2. I’m sick to death of hangovers- I’m too old for them, they last too long, and I can’t afford the expensive makeup you need to cover them up because I’ve spent all my money on expensive wine and disgusting kebabs (a pointless combination may I add.)
3. I want to get fit and whichever way I look at it, I can’t build wine into that equation- ‘it’s liquid, its grapes, it’s basically fruit?’ Spin class is no fun on a hangover, and carb fest 2015 has taken place this summer, with a new job in the city that has seen me spend the price of a small car in various bars and restaurants around town.
4. I threw up on the train on Sunday morning into a small, blue sandwich bag after an extortionate night out. I’m 27 years old. This CANNOT happen again.
5. I want to know the difference between an alcoholic and socialite. The line, I imagine, is finer that we like to think. Alcohol is socially acceptable, available, legal; so what makes some people abuse it and others not? Does it come down to luck, circumstance, genetics, social attitudes? Will power? Do we define where that line is, or does alcohol?
6. I grew up with an alcoholic, it wasn’t much fun. I’ve had 4am phone calls from A&E, I have visited him in hospitals, been to court with him, fixed his finances, let him live with me. I have looked after him, loved him, abandoned him and everything in between. Living with someone with a drink problem feels like living with acid in your stomach- it rots away at you, slowly, but on the outside no one sees the injury.
Not to kill the mood or anything. My instinct is to joke, but my instincts also tell me that nearly everyone reading this will relate to this in one way or another. It's why 'Sober for October' is a popular fundraiser- so many of us have complicated relationships with alcohol. Clichés cut; no over-used Frank Gallagher prototype can articulate the mark left on a family such a figure leaves, because the worst part, the part that creates the suffering, is the fact you love them. To love an addict is to grieve for them simultaneously, because you loose them, over and over again.
It took a very long time to negotiate a social life for myself as a result. (One that judging from my overactive Instagram account, has swung in the other direction, making up for lost time...) As an early twenty-something I struggled with anxiety and depression, had never been to a gig, hated nightclubs, crowds and went through bouts of being completely tee- total. I couldn’t even bring myself to go into a pub. I cringed when someone slurred their words at me, hated drunk and loud people, and never felt a part of the scene that everybody else seemed so enjoy with ease. I’d see guys with the blue plastic bags coming out the off-licence and would wonder if we were all just living the same evenings, a world we made so big and fast we need something to slow it all down again.
Resolve and forgiveness are things earnt with time, and as a more self-assured adult, it's left me curious;
I’m going to stay sober for 31 days because I want to know what it really feels like to want a drink, badly, and say no. I want to know what that feels like.
“I’ve done Asia.” The girl says to me.
“You’ve done it?”
“Yes” She said confidently
.“The whole continent?” I ask. Why do people talk like this when it comes to travelling?
“Last year I done Australia, and this year I done Asia.”
“What do you mean you’ve done Asia- you screwed it?”
* *
To Go Travelling. A rite of passage, a destination rather than a verb; ‘Travelling’ -a place where you drink your drinks from buckets rather than glasses, where you take super hot yet spiritual instagram pictures.
What are we looking for out there? Are we changed on our return, or do the lessons fade with the tan?
Either way, hearing some else’s ‘travelling’ tales is never as interesting as they think it is when they’re recalling long, arduous stories about nights out you weren't on, of beaches you didn't see. The returned traveller sighs in a way that informs you of your inadequacy as an audience as they try and get you to picture the mountain/beach/rave/monkey sanctuary, and as they tell you about the elephants/native children/rainbows that are intrinsic to their new (and temporary) vegan ways, you feel one of the two; boredom or, your own internal compass beginning to twitch.
I’m not going to tell you ‘I done’ Paris, in fact there were no buckets of booze in sight in Madrid. I didn't ‘do’ Barcelona, I danced it.
* * *
After the glory of Paris, Barcelona, looked slightly battered in comparison, but I loved the Gothic walls and happily watched people salsa dance on the streets while roller-blades glided past them, that ecliptic mix of old and new, of Catalan, the Moorish, Gothic and modern, the mash of architecture leaving me dizzy.
Kabul Hostel. 22 euros a night for a bed, breakfast and dinner. I can afford better but I don’t want better. I want people.
I immediately make friends with Emily, or to be more accurate Emily makes friends with me. Emily is Canadian and the kind of beautiful that has you staring half a second too long when she enters a room, with never ending legs and never ending enthusiasm for whatever is thrown her way. She so pretty and loud and wild, you want to poke her to check she real and not off the TV, but Emily is all real apart from her eyelashes, so long she could catch you a fish dinner with them if she went swimming in the ocean.
“Are you all by yourself?” she asks me.
In London the answer is always this question is always no. No I’m not by myself, no no, I have a gazzilion people on their way so don’t try and mug me/ kill me/ speak to me.
“Yes,” I say.
“Me too! she squeaks and hugs me. I’m hugged by this crazy Canadian and a friendship is forged.
This is perhaps the most surprising thing I have discovered about travelling alone; you’re never really alone. These cities and hostels and trains are full of people looking for the same thing as you- life, and I spoke to more strangers in these few weeks than the sum total of people I have ever spoken to on the tube. Quiet moments here aren't solitude, rather they are reflection. I am a person who hates the silence of my own company, but somewhere on those streets I gave up the ghost. There on the sand, beer and book in hand I watched the sun soften and then disappear on the water, me and my cold can of San Miguel feeling a happiness so deep it rumbled in my stomach like a hunger. I wanted more.
More arrived in the form of Kelly Jo Charge, my oldest and most vital part of my university days. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year, but have the type of friendship that immediately resumes its intensity and giddiness on our reunion.
We drank cocktails on sun loungers and hit the streets as the sun went down, ending up in an Irish Bar which though was not quite the cultured direction we had intended to fall down, was perfectly suitable for a gin and tonic, making friends with a rather sun-burnt trio of graduates. These were the type of graduates that make you feel slightly inadequate as with their high-tech business venture they were about to hit the big time. They graduated 4 months ago. I graduated 4 years ago. I’m still waiting for the big time.
We awoke the next morning with fuzzy heads in a room with our eight other roommates, Kelly rolling over to staring at the boy in the bunk bed next to ours.
“Stephen?”
“Kelly?”
In all the countries, in all the hostels, in all the rooms, here were two people that knew each other, friends on Facebook no less. The world isn't small, it’s just working in rhythms to have the right people come across each other. This city of souls has its own workings, its own plan that sweeps you up.
Stephen is the supermodel kind of Irish with piercing blue eyes, milky smooth skin and jet black thick hair, helpfully paired with a delicious sense of style- and that’s before you get to the accent. We love Stephen.
With the addition of my brother Dom a few days later, our gang was complete. Dom is one of my favourite people in the world and though he’s seven years younger, entering our twenties I like to think the age gap has closed, although it leaves me on the wrong side of 25 and him on the right side.
As the days wandered past us, bonds were forged, our crew of travellers inseparable, recognising certain traits in each other that kindle a friendship that feels easy and long lasting. We rode bikes, talked life, politics and made up an imaginary friend called Rhonda that spoke in a drawling New York accent and travelled the world with her dog on her dead husbands money. (Seriously what the hell was that one about? We talked about Rhonda so much that her voice still rings in my head sometimes. I blame the mango daiquiris...)
A new destination can reveal something of yourself to you, cultivate qualities suppressed in your everyday routine. Perhaps this is what the young traveller searches for amongst the tourist traps and tours, the drunken nights and sandy days-you’re searching for a better version of yourself, one you hope you can bring home.
We all like ourselves better here- the falsities and tightly wound stresses of work seem flippant, far away. The Barcelona version of myself is loud, friendly and open-minded- I talk to strangers in the beds next to me, make friends easily, learn new words-
a ‘loosey’ [Loo-zee] Noun:- a person who looses items / is careless
Example: ‘you’re such a loosey’
I dance until 6am in clubs that open out onto the beach, our gang spilling out onto the sand in between songs, eating spam and cheese baguettes from street sellers (they haven’t quite understood the concept of a burger van it seems) the bass line pumping us with adrenaline as we sing (yell) Calvin Harris, Rhianna and other familiar friends into the flashing dark.
One by one as the departure lounge calls, they leave all saying the same thing to the city:
“Thanks for reminding me who I am.”
Returned to the self, this strange city has given something of ourselves back to us but the real trick, is to hold onto that revelation- live that discovery back in the tube stations, back at your office.
How many of us vow that something has changed, that we won’t fall back into the same hamster wheels as before. Yet after a while, it becomes just pretty pictures in frames, profile pictures change as the next event takes center stage.
Is holiday the illusion or the revelation?
I jump on the next train before I find out.. Heading to Madrid I’m about to fall in love and be broken hearted in the space of 5 days…
Is it me or are these cakes so shiny you can almost smell the sugar and butter, capital letters calling out to you? I don't know whether to stick my face in them or eat them really quickly and throw it all up again. Know what I mean?
2. Because if you’re not into Friends references, I have nothing to say to you.
I like to think I'm a Rachel, (we all like to think we’re a Rachel,) but I think it's more likely I'm a Phoebe, little bit crazy, with a chequered past that comes out in stories that make no chronological sense…
3. I swear to god there is a card for everything.
You know, if they made this card when I was 17 my life would have been a whole lot easier. Actually my entire life would have been a whole easier with cards like these. It’s when valentines comes at the really inconvenient time when you've been dating about a week and haven't figured out the goal posts yet, you’re not even saying you’re seeing each other or dating each other, your just you know, hanging out, being cool, and you hope that neither of you notice valentine’s day, that it floats on past, yet secretly expect they do something to acknowledge it.
4. If Jezza Kyle made cuddle toys.
5. Delete, love, hate, repeat.
The addictive circle which you convince yourself is totally normal at the time, when in fact you can't really recall their face very clearly- because your either snogging it or trying to punch it.
6. Moon Pig needs to get organised.
I would so send these out if it was socially acceptable. This is a card that to me says, I certainly don't want to be your girlfriend anymore- but if I could go back that first week when you were showing off and treating me very nicely indeed, I would certainly be tempted. (if I could give you back again afterwards.)
7. History makes Tinder look tame.
Or, love me or I'll divorce you and blame you for my lack of functioning sperm and gangrene leg and syphilis.
8. The 'uh oh' moments.
Yep we've all had one of those. I was a waitress, new restaurant, first shift, and the boss came down the stairs, shook my hand introducing himself, and as he smiled I distinctly remember thinking, 'oh shit.' It lasted about 4 weeks, (as did the job.) .
9. The funny card that's not so funny when you open the super sentimental one she got you.
If you receive one of these my first thought is probably don't marry this one. And give him back to his mother.
10. Things I say in my head but wouldn't put on the front of a card.
"We are
told to 'do what we love' in life and our careers. Is that a fallacy?" the
Guardian asks in an article I came across this week- a question aimed at those aspiring to Steve
Jobs's 'don't settle' motto while at the same time faced with real-life
economic struggles and realities.
It's an ever
present question, a tug of war not just for young
people, but for those unsatisfied and unmotivated in the jobs they find
themselves in, those who know that they’re not doing what they love, but have responsibilities
that outweighs the possibility of change.
"DWYL
(Do What You Love) is a secret handshake of the privileged... According to this way of
thinking, labour is not something one does for compensation but is an act of
love. If profit doesn't happen to follow, presumably it is because the worker's
passion and determination were insufficient. Its real achievement is making
workers believe their labor serves the self and not the marketplace."
What does this leave us with- get rich or get real? I disagree. If you teach people to believe men like Steve Jobs are the exception to the rule, that their success is due to privilege, then you will fail before you start. Or worse- you will never try. No doubt the majority of us have or have had jobs that were taken out of need rather than love, to pay the bills rather than the passion for the daily tasks- my god I've cleaned toilets and sold dodgy timeshares in the Costa Del Crime along the way- but should we accept that as inevitable? That you don't get the choice, or the chance to change your mind along the way?
It's because we're measuring this quote in terms of his wealth- not his success. Success is that he found what he liked doing, did it well, built a company and family that he believed in, didn't give up despite obstacles, had something to show for his efforts and beliefs. This is the value- the net worth is the bonus.
The root of our
attitudes has much to do with our education system, structuring beliefs about
how the world around us works and rewards us. From a young age you have an intrinsic
understanding about which subjects at school have value, and which subjects are
worthless in the 'real' world, the worth based on what career path it is
attributed to, which box it fits into.
"People
like Apple's Steve Jobs and Facebook's Mark Zuckerberg were held up as examples
(if not gurus) of this "DWYL" trend, alongside people who quit
investment banking jobs to become cheese farmers, plumbers or yoga
entrepreneurs"
I left my job in
London to study, write novels, learn to surf and live by the sea with my little red kayak. The world didn't
end, my parents didn't disown me. But if my novel is never published, and I
never 'make it,' if I return to London when I'm ready, am I to believe that it was foolish to follow what I love in my educational
choices and career decisions? Do I not get to choose what I do with my working
life, whatever my C.V ends up looking like?
The comments on the Guardian article left by the public were insightful- hinting at what has become a natural position
when we come to talk about success and jobs and money:
"I am advising my children to think
about the lifestyle they want, and work back from there to a job that will
afford that lifestyle and a university education that will allow it. "
This, surely, is
the wrong way round, but is a very true picture about ever-present teachings on
how to live a happy and successful life. 'Lifestyle' is the accolade that you
slave for, to enjoy at the weekends and on bank holiday's.
"In Steve Jobs' Stanford commencement
speech he urged graduates, "don't settle". Keep searching for the
thing that you love doing. It was a great speech, but I know several people who
have used it as an excuse for a continual search. I have a graduate relative
who is fast approaching thirty, and has never been in a job for more than three
months, because they haven't found that thing that they love. It's supposed to
be a finite search. If you haven't found it in a two or three years, then find
something you can force yourself to love."
Life, I would
argue, is a continual search; what else are you doing? You will never
arrive at who you are and what you want to do one spring afternoon. Your
passions and flavours change and develop as you do, and a rich and fruitful
life involves giving yourself permission to explore those interests. If you
have to force it, it don't fit.
Who said you have to have one job or one career
for the duration anyway? You're going to be at work everyday, 5 days a week for about 40 years. That's a lot of time to work out what your good at, to change your mind about what you like doing. It all depends how you value success- by the measure of your own satisfaction and happiness, or by the milestones pressed upon us- house deposits, titles, car finance, holiday to Vegas.
I'm not
suggesting we all quit our jobs and go take photographs of sunflowers in a
field, but the question being pressed against lost graduates, university
hopefuls and people that are bored or unsatisfied in the their current jobs
leaves a bitter taste; are your passions and talents irrelevant when it comes
to the working world? Isfollowing your dream a luxury that we all
eventually must forfeit?
@melodys_pen
Like this? Read
about the Forbes list top Ten Happiest Jobs and Top Ten most miserable jobs here
