Yesterday when I was young
How is it that the working week can drag by and yet the weekend seems to be gone in the blink of an eye. As I crossed Clerkenwell Road on my way to work this morning, it felt like only a few seconds since I'd been there last, feeling elated as it was Friday and I'd just got paid. Fast forward to Monday and I'm poorer, considerably less cheerful and back at work again. I'm 32 and have been working full-time for nine years; will I ever get used to Mondays?
I went out drinking in Camden on Saturday night. This is something I don’t generally do. I hardly ever cross the river and am a little bit scared of Camden once the sun slips out of the sky. I fancied a change though and so we endured the Northern line to meet a friend in Camden.
On entering the pub I instantly felt like a tourist. Endless unfamiliar faces and odd clothes stretched out before me as I made my way to the bar. In one corner, a boy with bad hair wore a badge which indicated he was celebrating his 21st birthday. Good looking people with their whole lives in front of them littered the place and I was glad when I could find a seat and sit down and be less conspicuous. Despite feeling like an osteoporotic pensioner, I enjoyed myself immensely. I realised how caught up I’d been in a smug thirtysomething bubble over the river in SE1.
It was quite nice being surrounded by the young and feeling by osmosis their contradictory inner struggles between not giving a damn and being riddled with insecurities. Although I would have quite liked to steal their smooth skin and waist sizes, I decided I didn’t want to be 21 again. 29, maybe, but not 21.