I've worked hard to achieve certain things, only to discover that those things are ultimately a bit meaningless. Swapping terrible business platitudes (that I was poor at doing anyway - I've wrestled the "Haway man, you *pause* are *pause* talking *pause* *emphasis* SHITE!" monster more often than I can count) is something I'm bad at.
I've offended a few people along the way, let's be honest. And I'm pretty diplomatic.
I have a kid now, and while I relish the head space of going to work, I also miss the little blighter so much at times that it hurts. I'm also aware that having structure through having a reasonably challenging job keeps me sharp, focused, and most importantly, not depressed which is a gift that means at the end of the day that I'm being as good a parent as I can be. So what...I don't spend 24/7 with him, but I don't take him for granted either, and have the patience when it counts.
But...that's the deal that you make with fate to a certain degree. We have to make a deal with the devil to ensure that we can keep ourselves fed and watered, with a something that resembles a roof over our heads. If you can do that solely by doing the things you love the most, that's brilliant, but for the vast majority of us that isn't the case, and we're not going to be rescued. We aren't going to win the lottery, we aren't going to invent something awesome and we probably aren't secretly the heir of Potloadsofcashrutania either.
There is nothing wrong with making a living, but you've got to assert where that stops and your *actual* life starts. The one where you get enough sleep, the one where you have enough energy to be loving towards those that you love, where you can exercise, where you can eat, drink and be merry and not feel like someone has their foot on the back of your neck. It's all about head space, and it's all about getting your head around what you *believe* you should be doing, and what you actually should be doing.
If you've got to do something that is intrinsically boring, for chuffs sake, don't let it eat your life. You aren't doing yourself any good, draw a line around your hours, say "no" and do some fun shit. Or just eat a random sandwich on a park bench somewhere pretty. Honestly, you'll feel better. And you'll realise that the world is not going to pitch off the mantelpiece because you decided to take your foot off the accelerator.
If you want to do something creative, do it, but accept the fact that this other thing (i.e. work) will prevent you at times. But when you do get to do it, do it well, do it freely and with joy.
You haven't sold your soul to the devil, you've just done what needed to be done.
Read, write, draw, play, rest, run, eat...the rules don't change because you're an adult. x
Never has writing something in rhyming couplets been so therapeutic....
Dear Sexist Child
A mum, a child, a sunny day
Met some youths along the way,
While walking in the local park,
And it wasn't even dark.
First, there came a piercing whistle
(A finger raised up in dismissal)
When with unfettered erudition,
One made the mum a proposition.
The much maligned young Casanova
Yelled from a place that's quite far over,
"You've got one kid, do you want another?"
"Give that poor dear boy a brother."
"You know you wants it, yes you do"
"I'll even loan my special goo"
And next he offered explorations
Illegal in a host of nations.
The mum did think, "perhaps I'll dodge
that close encounter with your splodge,
Plus shouting filth behind a hillock
gives proof you are a total pillock.
I will not fear, upon my life
A fool too young to buy a knife,
Some youth today are running wild,
You grim and rotten sexist child."
The angry mum kept walking up,
To find a shirtless callow pup,
Say "He really fancies you, you see"
"So this should make my loins go "SQUEE"??
Thought mum, while praying to herself,
That spunky boy stays on the shelf,
Or least by order of this sweet lament,
Is grounded until retirement.
And so I end this sorry tale,
Of youthful misadventures (male),
I'd rather bite the cyanide tooth,
Than take up with a sexist youth,
You did not win, you sorry soul,
My peace you broke upon that stroll.
This mum can now take all her solace,
Because she called the Edgar Wallace.
It's very difficult to talk about Katie Hopkins, primarily known for resigning from The Apprentice and engaging in al fresco sex with married fellas, without resorting to schoolyard jibes about her appearance and kicking all the furniture and pets within reach, while simultaneously frothing at the mouth and spitting obscenities.
Well that's the effect she has on me.
Her latest zinger is claiming that Kelly Brook is "a chubster" and that any working woman "can be a size 8" just like her, and that they should just "eat less and move about more".
So far, so simplistic.
I'm not tall, but even at under 6 stone 13lbs/97lbs at one point in my life, I was never a size 8. What I'd like to know, what would she recommend doing in my case, as I am blessed with a sturdy frame? Is someone going to come out with an all new bone-slimming diet? Should I grate myself on a full length sanding block to get my body down to achieve the necessary proportions? Or can I narrow my shoulders and ribcage purely by force of will?
Yet again, we see this lining up of slimness being passed off as virtue, or "if only they can exhibit the same amount of will power as me, then they will be perfect". Virtue is being kind to people, virtue is not the ability to get into a dress size. If the world is full of tactless TV trolls like Katie, I'm moving to Mars.