Well it would seem this is the new home for my ramblings, writing and strung together stream of "consciousnesses".. is that a word?
Livejournal is officially dead, so here I am.
It's a boiling Sunday eve/morning in London and I can't sleep. I have tried to be productive and churned out around 40 emails to publications offering them my services, for zilch.
There really must be a recession if you can't get a job, working for nada. My niece is here and tomorrow morning she and hundreds of other kids shall be whisked off to star in the new Harry Potter film.
It made me think of childhood dreams, when I was that age I imagined by now, at 22, I would have had at least five best-sellers under my Gucci belt and possibly a recording contract- but the less said about that the better.
I did not think I would be living at my parents house, just starting a degree and have a string of failed relationships under my tatty £6 vintage belt. I imagined having a great mews house filled with designer shoes and fabulous friends. Although I have the shoe and friend part down, this does not fill me with hope on the one hour daily commute to university. Yet when I look around the carriage at all the other suburban commuters, I guess this isn't what they dreamed of either.
Where did it all go wrong? When you are a child you feel anything is possible.. somewhere in-between losing our virginity and losing our heads in a bar for the first time, we lose that hope.
Granted not all of us, I'm sure Sir Alan Sugar was too busy flogging tat on a market to be behind the bike-sheds with a can of cider and a very inappropriate boy, but still for most of us the dreams we once harboured have died.
We grew up, became realistic. In my case I flirted with fashion marketing, realised it was full of maths, so went with journalism. I woke up and faced facts that my dream of living in Paris churning out poetry was never going to get me out of suburban hell.
My escape plan, has to be writing serious fact based copy. My escapism.. well shopping and inappropriate boys (without the cider).
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