I remember standing in the kitchen of our family home in Swiss Avenue, Watford, in late 2008 and announcing to my family:
“I just want to stay like this forever now. Buy one of those new flats on the Beechen Grove roundabout, like x’s sister did, and just spend my life working in temp-ing jobs I don’t really have to think about in order to pay the bills and go on nights out.”
Watford wasn’t where all my favourite people at that point in life lived. But it was the place that had the largest number of my favourite people living in it, and that was the anchor.
In 2008, I saw a future that involved weekly nights out at Oceana followed by a short walk home where I could stuff my face into a kebab. Work that involved clicking branded pens at an array of different melamine faced chipboard desks amidst smells of franking ink. Stuffing envelopes without a care in the world. Going home to a flat in a building where the communal hallways permanently smelt of mincemeat-based meals, like the accommodation at Uni. I would like that as it would be a reminder that people are around…(because it’s definitely not me cooking mincemeat).
And I wanted that future. I was a Watford girl and that was it, innit.
But things took a turn. I realised the new workplace I was in was a bit toxic. There were some really lovely people there, but also a lot of bad vibes and nastiness between colleagues. I grew unhappy, and suddenly that future I’d envisioned seemed like something to avoid rather than dream about. I would look out over those flats at Beechen Grove at 2am during those waits at the taxi rank after awkward work nights out, and feel relieved that I lived a whole car ride away.
“It was awful again today!!!” I cried, barbecue sauce round my lips, as an old school friend, L, came over one Monday evening to play on the Wii Fit and eat curly fries and wings from Hot Stuff washed down with wine.
I can clearly remember the look of concern on her face, even though we’d only recently been laughing at our instability on the Balance Board: “Please just leave it.”
L was a few squares ahead on life’s game board than me. She hadn’t taken a gap year, so had more experience in the world of work than I had… more time to see and do things I hadn’t yet seen or done… and so her words had a real impact. Pinot Grigio or no Pinot Grigio. I hadn’t ever really thought about the fact I could just leave. That’s not something we have the luxury of for most of our careers, but I didn’t have a mortgage at that point and was fortunate enough to be able to live at home.
Foreign travel from 2009 – instigated by the unhappiness at work – taught me the possibility of feeling content – excited even – elsewhere. The energy of experiencing cultures different to what I was used to. Meeting new people, hearing their stories, and appreciating the value of alternative perspectives. Seeing colours I’d never seen within Watford’s palette.
“If you come from a place that’s yellow and go to a place that’s blue, when you return, you’ll only ever be able to see it as green.” – the only five seconds of words spoken at a workshop I attended following my volunteering that I remember from the whole day.
It was travel, but in truth it could have been anything that represented difference and perspective. A new hobby. New house. New friend. New favourite song.
This was the point I realised that not all of life’s circumstances needed to be permanent. That things could be different, but only if you had the desire, the means, and the courage to change them. We don’t always have the means, so when we do, we must use them wisely.
And so when my parents told me they’d be moving to Kent in 2010, I didn’t fret as much as I did when they’d first motioned the idea in 2007. I decided to join them instead, even if only temporarily, until I could afford my own place elsewhere.
“Well Kent is a bit too posh for me innit but… Canterbury… I do like it down there. There’s that river with the pretty flowers where I sit and listen to music on our annual visits. It seems like a creative place. I can become a writer there.”
I wound down the remaining time in Watford working in another temping job where bullying and hostility were central characteristics of the office environment. Although I wasn’t ever directly targeted this time, and the job itself was actually quite fun, it still wasn’t not the most inspiring place to spend 40 hours a week. A soulless industrial estate in Hemel Hempstead where the daily highlight was buying a chicken sandwich from the shop down the road. A workplace that regularly culled colleagues for what they perceived was inadequate performance. Just as soon as they’d start transitioning from colleagues into friends, they’d send you a text:
“I got the email.”
It was a place in which I knew I could never really cast my anchor.
I eventually handed in my notice and we moved down to Kent in April 2011.
Suddenly the surroundings were a lot more beautiful. Greenery, beaches, wild flowers, history, cosmopolitism. The sun seemed to shine more in Kent.
And there were no more 6am bus rides in the dark to Hemel Hempstead.
Freedom. Endless time to wander the pretty streets of Canterbury and explore the countryside on my bike until I was employed again. I started going to yoga classes, like the stereotypical 20+ year old that had volunteered in South East Asia, and started writing this very blog. I was terrible at both – the tutor was permanently correcting my leg positioning and some of the earliest posts on this blog make my eyes bleed – but I still appreciated all the time I had to be creative.
But it had come at a cost. Quite a significant one.
No money and no friends. 8 months of trying to find paid work only to be batted away each time for lack of experience. Fortnightly signing on at the Job Centre. Rejection after rejection after rejection. The days where I clung on to the hope that my application to become a part time window cleaner had been successful (it hadn’t).
Foolishly trying to use online dating as a way to try and make friends because it felt like the only way without work or study. Using £15 of my Job Seekers Allowance to try and get the coach up to London every couple of months to at least see friends for dinners I couldn’t really afford. Wondering if I’d made the right choice, or if I should have just stayed in Watford. Where people were.
I cried more frequently than I had ever cried before. Daily. Even my parents were getting worried about me. Exploring my new surroundings was no longer fun. All I could think about was my ever-depleting purse and lack of social connection.
Gradually things got much better. The perfect job offer for the time, and how it made me appreciate all the previous rejections that had ensured I was available to accept it. The friends, who started as strangers and random people, but who then gradually became extensions of family. The anchor deepening further into the seabed with every heart and wine-driven conversation under every dim lightbulb in every bar with every person who offered me new perspectives on things.
15 years on, it’s very hard to imagine my life without what Kent has given me in the way of people, opportunities and adventures. The people that I would never have met. The memories that could have otherwise never been made.
It’s not always been easy – life isn’t – but I’m glad I stuck it out.
And above all else, I’m grateful for the unhappiness I felt in 2009. Thank goodness that happened.
Because sometimes the best presents aren’t wrapped in pretty paper.
This isn’t really a post about me moving from Watford to Kent.
It’s really about how life doesn’t always go to plan. How sometimes we find ourselves grabbing a hastily drawn Plan B (not the American contraceptive) from the drawer…
…but how that doesn’t always have to be a bad thing.
My anchor is firmly lodged somewhere off the coast of Kent (fairly sure bits of my boat fell off at Seasalter during my failed sailing attempts). I don’t know if I’ll ever feel a need to dig it back up – maybe I will, maybe I won’t – but if I do…
…I’ll think back to the kitchen at Swiss Avenue, 2008.
Another World Cup has passed with England not bringing the top trophy home, but when you’ve been a Villa fan for over thirty years you’re kind of used to that… (until this year anyway.)
I love watching the World Cup, but it’s never really about whether or not England will win, as nice as that’d be. It’s the atmosphere I relish most, and it always has been. Seeing athletes from all over the globe take centre stage, passionate fans, national anthems. The unique way this simple game involving a ball and two nets unites people from every continent, all sat watching the games from hemisphere to hemisphere, mountain to desert. Some in the middle of the night, others first thing in the morning. A universal talking point that isn’t war, climate change or anything else depressing.
France ’98 was always my favourite. My older sister and I had decided to try and complete the official sticker album in the months leading up to the event, and I feel like I can still name most of the players who took part in the competition because of this. Scotland’s David Hopkin is the first that springs to mind, because he appeared in virtually every other pack we bought (the surplus David Hopkinses would end up being stuck all over various household appliances), and Fabio Cannavaro because I thought he was fit and particularly enjoyed looking at that sticker as we tried to complete Italy.
And also probably just because it was 1998 and the world seemed a brighter place back then somehow. Cheesy pop music in the charts. Inflatable furniture. See-through telephones. Pot Noodles that still tasted decent (i.e before they took out all the salt). Saturday night T.V. Gladiators. Cilla Black, before we found out she was mean in real life. Fun House. Everybody having an opinion on what was happening in Eastenders. Sonia’s trumpet.
…I’m digressing away from the football… but after some deliberation, I’m not going to delete any of that. ’90’s pop culture should never be erased.
No World Cup has felt the same for me since 1998; maybe it’s because I no longer attempt to complete the sticker album. I’m sure I’d still get some entertainment from doing so, even though I’m now a 40-year old woman, but the reality is that it’s very expensive to do and somehow I feel like I have even less money now than I did when I was 12.
But I still watch, any game, if I can. Remove England VS Ghana which sent everybody I know to sleep, and most of the games were pretty entertaining this year. As World Cups go, this has been one of the better ones in my view.
And no, England weren’t victorious on this occasion and that will disappoint many, but it doesn’t really disappoint me. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from being a Villa fan this year, it’s that the longer the wait, the better when it actually happens.
And it will happen. One day.
In May, I watched my Villa win a trophy for the first time in all the three decades since I’ve been a fan. It was incredibly special, and although I may not be as big a football fan as I was when I was younger, I was still pleased enough to shed a tear and celebrate the sight of a team that has been so troubled in not so distant years finally get to hold some new silverware. Somehow, it was the thirty year wait that made that so special.
Conversely, I’ve seen fans of other, more decorated teams bemoan the fact they finished the season empty-handed. It’s not an outcome they’re used to; winning is the expectation, trophies are the norm. A rite of passage, not a bonus. And so I’m just not sure that when they do experience their usual success, that they do so with the same levels of excitement or appreciation as those who rarely manage to experience the same things.
One day, England will win the World Cup, and when they do the celebrations will be massive, probably beyond current comprehension. The highs will be higher because of the lows endured in the years to get there.
The less you have of something special, the more you appreciate the bits you do have.
Pretty much like a lot of things in life I guess.
We’ll all enjoy it when it happens. And it will mean even more to us than it would have done this year.
Up the Villa! Or whatever team you support.
A sight that was even sweeter because I never thought I’d see it 😉
This month I ticked off an item from my bucket list, by going on a steam train ride with my parents.
It was the second time this year I found myself fawning over old trains…
My dad has always been into them, an interest that never really resonated with me in my younger years. Trips up to the London Underground Met Line Station in Watford – just up the road from our family home between 1989-2011 – to see the special visit of some old steam trains – were experiences I felt I needed to politely endure rather than enjoy, whilst dad took countless photos of what all looked like the same thing.
Really, I just wanted to be at home watching grainy American teen drama series on MTV, or playing Donkey Kong Country on the Super Nintendo with my big sister.
Roll forward about 30 years, to February 2026.
I’ve been staying with an old school friend – E – in Willesden Green following another friend’s 40th. I need to catch the Met Line back into central in order to get back to Kent, and find myself enveloped in nostalgia as we get to the Underground station.
“Look at all this old, original architecture!” I hear myself say as we enter, in a voice I don’t recognise. The dark wooden panelling around the ticket booths. The brickwork and vintage sea green tiles. All the things I wouldn’t have even blinked at as a child who used these trains a lot, suddenly becoming something of fascination and awe.
I bid goodbye to E by the ticket barriers and head down to the platform. The winter morning sunshine poking out from the white skies casts a glow over the leafy suburb that sits on the other side of the fence. I’m reminded of growing up in Watford, that confusing it’s-not-London-but-it-is-London sprawl of a place which is often maligned in jokes. A bit like Slough, maybe only slightly nicer, and with a name that doesn’t sound like a garden pest.
I reminisce seeing the tube trains pull away from Watford Met station out of my childhood bedroom window; close enough to see the passenger-shaped silhouettes through the carriage windows, far away enough to be unable to identify them. Disappointing, when you’re trying to spot your crush on their way home from the Boys’ school next to the station.
The nostalgic thoughts continue all the way to Baker Street, when something even more strange happens.
I’m actually excited to see it. Because nowadays I really appreciate and understand, that it’s the oldest station on an underground network that was the first of its kind anywhere in the world, and that’s something pretty remarkable, to be fair.
When we used to travel into London from Watford in the ’90s / early ’00s, we’d change at Baker Street to catch the Jubilee line to Bond Street, which pretty much meant Oxford Street, which pretty much meant crowds, strangers, and shops. As much as I appreciated the opportunity to go into bigger shops and buy things I couldn’t find at home, I wasn’t otherwise fond of the area, mostly because of those same crowds, and strangers.
And also because there was a wild rumour flying around at the time about somebody buying a Mars’ Topic bar at one of the dusty looking snack shops on the platform, and finding the head of a chocolate-encased rat as they bit into it. Not sure how true that is, and will never really get to find out…
…but it was all enough to taint my view of the Underground somewhat.
Until I became old (40), and suddenly Baker Street station represented a key part of our social history as opposed to nasty vermin surprises…
In February 2026, instead of thinking about the accidental digestion of rat heads, I think about how there’s a Wetherspoons next door that was once a high end dining hall affectionately known as ‘The Chiltern Court Restaurant’, a popular pit stop for those about to take a ride on the new subterranean railway in the late 19th / early 20th century.
I must visit it, because conveniently I need a coffee or five, and that refill machine is a dream in that situation. Now cleverly known as ‘The Metropolitan Bar’ in homage to the Underground’s first ever line – opened in 1863 – the space is just as familiar as it isn’t. Same old sticky tables and nachos, but surrounded by grand pillars and vintage rail posters that remind you of the role of this same set of coordinates in years gone by, when the world had yet to learn about paninis and pitchers of WooWoo.
Because it was only just about getting used to the ChooChoo.
It’s hard not to notice a beautiful – almost comforting – sense of anemoia creeping in at this point. You think about all the people that ate in this very same room decades before you, where they were going, and why they were going there? To check out potential homes in the new, leafy suburbs of Greater London perhaps, or a trip out to the countryside? How were they feeling? What were they chatting about?
It took my parents 38 years to convince me to watch Sir John Betjeman’s famous 1973 documentary ‘Metro-Land’, about the creation of the Metropolitan Line and – most crucially – the positive socio-economic impact it had. Many of the towns and villages in north-west Greater London would benefit from a quicker access to the city centre granted by the new Underground system, and grew larger and more populous as a result.
Watford was effectively part of that Metro-Land, and we had lived in it, but I never really knew what that meant. I certainly wasn’t bothered about watching a film about the likes of Harrow, Pinner and all those other suburbs we’d pass on the way into central, but as an older person, I found myself glued to the screen admiring it all. It would turn out that E had watched it once too and we had a great chat about it, but I wouldn’t imagine we’d have done so over those gossips on the landline during the evenings of 1999.
And now I find myself looking more intently at everything whenever I take the Underground, particularly on the original lines. The hidden passageways once trodden by thousands of vintage shoes, the remnants of platforms of disused stations (known colloquially as ‘ghost stations’). Echoes of the past reverberating around the very present, dozens of metres below street level.
If there are indeed ghosts on the Underground, what must they think of the passengers of today? Shuffling along at pace. Stressed. Shoving into each other. All staring at small metal oblongs and all lost them within themselves, just trying to get to their destinations as quickly as possible in a world that doesn’t seem to wait anymore.
Not because it actually doesn’t, but because we often forget that it can.
I frequently think that if there was anywhere in the world I could go – if logistics weren’t an issue – it wouldn’t be so much about a place anymore, but a time.
Many people who know me will know that I’ve written a complete diary entry, every single day, for thirty years. I didn’t intend to, but once you get into the habit of something like that, you can’t quite stop.
The diaries are personal. I started them in the interest of recording all the things I didn’t want to forget, but over the years they’ve been a valuable way for me to process my thoughts and feelings too. This was particularly useful during childhood, when things were ever-changing at pace.
I was very lucky to have a stable and generally happy upbringing. When I post what I’m about to post, I want to make it clear that I acknowledge and appreciate that. But – like a lot of young people – I really struggled with anxiety.
Throughout my teens, I had zero confidence in myself. I felt different to everybody else, hated my appearance, and was often ridiculed and laughed at by the ‘cool’ girls for being a bit “weird”, because I enjoyed different music and could be a bit quirky.
And I looked the way I did. I was regularly referred to as Bugs Bunny because of my teeth and – on one particularly damning occasion that I can fortunately laugh about now – Robbie from Eastenders, because of my straggly hair (as well as the teeth, again).
Some lines stay in your head forever:
“You’re SO sad. You know that don’t you?!“ (First week of secondary school, from a girl who’d gone to the same primary school so I felt had the evidence to say this. Ouch.)
“What’s wrong, Sophie? Did you look in a mirror?!” (Year 11. Same girl and her friend. Double ouch.)
I often felt that nobody really liked me because of these things, which as a child is a really nasty yet very common way to feel. In reality I had many lovely friends at school, and though time and distance can naturally cause some friendships to drift, they will always have a special place in my heart because of what we learned about life together. The problem at the time, was that I just didn’t understand why they’d want to hang around with me. I didn’t even want to hang around with me, because it would have meant having to look at my face, and I didn’t even like looking at myself in a mirror, which probably explains why I often looked a bit of a mess. Vicious cycle.
But this isn’t a ‘woe is me’, because the reality was that I was far, far from alone in being the target of ridicule.
My form at school earned a lovely nickname within the wider year group: ‘Slags and Weirdos‘. I never needed to ask which category I fell into. In the earlier years of secondary school there was a bit of an in-form rivalry between the two of us because we were so different, but by the end of year 11, we all seemed to gel. Maybe it was a mutual respect following the shared experience of being judged by others, but it showed to me at an early age the value of trying to understand and respect people’s individual stories, even – especially – if on the surface they differ from our own. The importance of recognising that all groups have their own challenges and experiences. The ‘Slags and Weirdos’ had more in common than they initially realised, and we were the best form because of it. Go the A’s.
And I know that this kind of social politics still goes on in schools today, that young people are struggling more than ever with their mental health, either with anxiety like I had or things much more serious. I feel for them, I really do, particularly in the advent of social media, where the judgement and bullying can be constant, and not just confined within school walls.
Whenever I read through my old diaries, there are so many occasions when I just want to respond, to go back in time and reassure or advise myself from the future. I obviously can’t do that, but writing this feels like the next best thing. Who knows, maybe the 65 year old me will feel like doing similar after reading back over the 2026 diary. A lot of our life is only really understood or contextualised in time. That’s how it works.
Much of the content below will seem trivial. It is trivial, and that’s why my responses are mostly in jest, but the problem is that I didn’t know that at the time. The fact is, that it was a very upset thirteen year old girl writing some of these entries, and whilst I personally think it’s healthy to be able to laugh at ourselves – which is why I do so throughout this post – I don’t want that sentiment to be forgotten.
Why am I sharing this? Well for one thing, I’ve been trying to work out for years how to make some use of my diaries, since I’ve spent so many years writing them. The other reason is that I think sometimes, even within the furthest flung corners of the Internet, things are found when they need to be. If any youngsters come across this page at any point in the future – my nieces and nephews perhaps – then I hope it can help to reassure you of the power of perspective and time, and why many of the things you’re stressing about now really don’t matter, or that they’ll pass.
I deliberated whether sharing photos from the actual diaries – as opposed to just typed quotes – would be appropriate or ‘too much’. In the end I decided to share them. That way you know the words haven’t been altered or embellished to make for better or more impactful reading, like so many other things are these days. They are a child’s real thoughts and feelings. They were never written with a wider audience in mind, and there was no reason to try and hide or fabricate anything.
So here you have it. A conversation with my 13 year old self, part 1, when we head back to early 1999. This was my first page-to-a-day diary, the first year that the entries started to properly contain feelings as well as facts. My original plan was to do a full year, but within just two months, there was already so much I wanted to say… and that alone speaks for itself.
Names have been obscured and replaced with *** where appropriate.
“I’m really depressed that it’s back to school on Monday, every day something bad and worrying happens, it’s only good on Fridays when we don’t have too many different lessons.”
“There will come a time when you actually miss a lot of things about school, even double Maths on a Monday morning with Mrs Dey (what a legend, by the way. You thought she was evil, but now you realise it all came from a place of care. And in 2024, when you find out she has long passed away, you will actually feel very sad, and regret writing that poem about her in year 9).
You ‘worked’ a 6 hour day which included over an hour of pissing around playing cards at lunch. Bin Duty was once a term as opposed to every single day. You didn’t have to worry about bills or income. The only thing you were really compelled to do was go and learn about new and interesting things all week. You’d love to be able to do that now.”
“Absolute shit day!! There was me, tootling to skool all optimistic, only to find out that ***** knew about the Steps dance we were doing. She was really upset and now the group has split in two.”
“The sad thing here (aside from the fact you were planning to do a dance rendition of ‘Tragedy’ by Steps in the school talent show), is that you had been uncomfortable about leaving her out from the start, but you didn’t have the courage to voice it. You were more concerned about being included in the dance yourself, even if it meant others – like one of your favourite friends – missing out. That’s the real ‘tragedy’ here, and it was a really shitty thing to do. You’ll eventually learn that you must always listen to your gut feeling and align your actions with your values, but admittedly it’s harder to do that at your age, when you’re still working out what those values are…
By the way, in years to come – starting as soon as year 9 – you will ALL be laughing about the fact you fell out over this. So that weekend you wasted feeling grey and sick about this, worrying you’d lost those friendships forever… you really didn’t need to.”
“I’ve heard a cool song called ‘Pretty Fly for a White Guy’ by The Offspring. It’s cool. I heard it in HMV. I’m a goth, it’s official. Chart music today sucks (apart from BSB and 5ive – who are obvious exceptions). Heavy metal kicks ass! The songs have a meaning other than, ‘Oh I’ve just decided I love U‘
“Oh, Sophie. Cringe. The Offspring are NOT goth, nor are they heavy metal, they’re pop punk. You’re not a goth, although you’ll try to be one in 2001 when you start wearing lots of black and burning incense in your bedroom whilst listening to Belladonna & Aconite from your big sister’s Inkubus Sukkubus CD on repeat and using words like ‘wiccan’ on internet chatrooms even though you have no idea what it actually means.”
“Ya know, as a goth, people may think I’m sad, but they’re all a bunch of saddoes anyway. Live and Let Live. Peace to goths worldwide.”
“Hahaha. You’re still not a goth, three days later. And now you’re being judgemental about other’s musical tastes too. Practice what you preach, though you’re right in expressing solidarity with a minority.”
“I’m a little depressed about something. I don’t know any boys. I mean sure, there’s ***** and that lot but no more and it’s not as if I always see them. I hate my school, if it weren’t for my friends I’d want to leave, but (Rickmansworth School) is too weird. I guess I sound like a snob now, but it’s true, go to Ricky, prepared to be bullied if you’re larger than a 10 and look ugly like me (the ugly bit only, I’m size 8). I just hope things work for me like they did for (sister).”
“You’ll start meeting boys and having boyfriends in a couple of years, and the ensuing drama and general cacophony will make you realise why you’re happy to attend an all girls school. A comparatively peaceful oasis within the nonsense.
You will get offered a place at Ricky for sixth form but you will be delighted that you don’t need to accept it and can stay where you are. So you don’t really hate your school afterall.”
“Right, today was fairly bad. Everything was OK until lunch. ***, *** and *** did impressions of me doing (the) Tragedy (dance), but just as (a) joke, which I’m aware of. I needed the loo so I got up and left the classroom. ***, *** and *** followed me out to see if I was okay, and I turned a bit tearful. I’m sorry I can’t do the stupid dance.”
“Okay, firstly, you need to accept the fact you’ll never get any better at coordinated dance (or any dancing, for that matter). Secondly, why on earth did they think a self-confessed ‘goth’ would make a great member of faux Steps! You don’t even like Steps. They should have just asked *** in the first place, if nothing else it would have saved the dramas of 08/01/1999. Whoever organised that bloody talent contest had a lot of tears to answer for!”
“At my party, she completely took over the CD player, we only listened to songs she liked. She knew I hated Billie music so she deliberately had that on.”
“Well thank goodness she (really nice girl, by the way) did take over the CD player at the party. Nobody would have wanted to listen to Weezer or Nirvana, just you (and possibly Emily), and you can do that in your own time. And one day, chart music will pine for something like the innocent, upbeat tones of Billie Piper. You might feel embarrassed to know that when you’re an ‘old lady’ (you know, 40) you’ll be straight on the dance-floor when that same song chimes in on 90’s nights. Because you want to. Genuinely. Pop music at the moment is the best, you don’t realise how good your generation has it. Keep her on DJ duty!”
“Hockey with Emma. There is a very fit boy there, I have a feeling he’s been noticed by me last year walking home. He’s from the Boys’ School, I could tell because he had Boys’ school gym socks on. He has dark hair in a style to Jordan from NKOTB. I’M GOING TO HOCKEY MORE OFTEN!!”
“You will never see him ever again, Sherlock. But you WILL see the real Jordan Knight, performing in Manchester in 2012. The rest of the New Kids will be there too. Yes, even Joey. The one you cried about last year because you fancied him so much but he lives in the States (and also has zero interest in meeting you, as he sits in his mansion with his beautiful blonde wife and millions of dollars).“
“My life really sucks!! I’m fed up with all this arguing at school. *** and *** went off again at lunch, *** was upset, *** has been quiet all day. *** and *** feel sorry for *** and I’m just alone. If *** and *** become best friends, who am I going to be best friends with? I’ll just go with ***, but *** and *** don’t get on well. I’m sick of this. I want to be ***’s best friend. I h8 this (oh look I’m so stressed I’m repeating myself). It’s going to be impossible to have 1 good day, and I’m going to say so at lunch tomorrow. I’ll say, “look, it’s no good pretending everything’s dandy (ok, crap word). We must talk and be rational about this.”
“Christ. Where to start with this chaos… maybe just know that in as far away as 2024 you’ll go for brunch in St Albans with at least half the people mentioned in this entry, where you will spend a great deal of time reminiscing and laughing about dramas such as this one. Real friends stay, and you can look forward to meeting your very best friends in the years to come. That’s all you need to know right now.”
“I feel so stupid! Everything’s muffed up because of me! When I asked *** 2 join our group, it upset a few people aka *** and *** and I think maybe *** They were upset because I’d not asked anyone about it first. I understand why they’re upset and I feel so stupid! Now *** and *** have left the group and even sat somewhere different at lunch. I have a feeling someone is in a mood with me, well actually I know they are, the thing is I don’t know who. *** refuses to call us a group.”
“I’m glad you were considering ways to conserve valuable energy (and ink) when you wrote “2” instead of “to”. It’s a shame you expended that same energy on feeling way more upset about this than you needed to. You’ll all be friends again before the week is out anyway. Please stop crying about this. It’s really not worth it. Watch some TV instead, pick up a new book, learn to paint, spend time with your parents and make the most of the free cake on the days out at all those old houses and gardens.
And sometimes people just like to sit in different places at lunch to switch up the scenery. Don’t let overthinking become a habit…”
“Went to hockey with Emma. Unfortunately, the fit boy wasn’t there, but I hope he’ll be there next week or else!”
“Saddest love story ever known. He won’t be there next week, and neither will you. You and Emma will start bunking off from hockey club and cycle around the park for an hour instead before going back to her house to play Paperboy on the Sega. You’ll lie to your parents but the probability is they know this already. The shite hockey skills and lack of bruises kinda give it away.”
“At lunch some girls came up to me and implied that I looked like a boy they knew. I’m insulted!”
“Yeah. Comments like this don’t really help with the hang-ups, and the fact you’ll still be able to visualise this exact moment – some year 10s near the stairs by the modern language department – in 2026 isn’t great. But whatever, hopefully it was a fit boy at least. Or one that will grow into a hot man. Maybe it could be worse.”
“Confusing day. I felt that *** and *** were both in a mood with me and I had no idea why. I think it’s because I didn’t tell them what *** told me yesterday about *** and the legs.”
“Trying to second guess what people are thinking and feeling is – and will always be – exhausting. Just ask them, instead of overthinking. Chances are they’re thinking about Wagon Wheels and German homework as opposed to some idle gossip about some ‘legs’ (wtf).
“*** lent me her old mobile phone, it’s so I can look all cool in front of ***”
…
*Slams head on desk*
“Ooh! Today was scary! In PSE Miss Brown caught me writing, ‘I HATE PSE’ in big pink writing all over one of the pages of my rough book. She had a go at me after school.”
“Put the pink pen firmly back in the cylindrical Bang-on-the-door pencil case and stop defacing your rough book. You won’t realise it yet, but PSE is actually one of the more important of all the classes. You might find the Resusci-Annies mildly terrifying – who doesn’t- but this is more important than learning about tectonic plates, and more important than learning about parabolas (word last used in 2002). Just because there’s no exam on it, doesn’t mean you mustn’t listen. And that’s exactly why Miss Brown shouted at you about this, because she knew how important it was too.”
“I received my fake Valentine card. The poem inside is sick man!”
“You’ll remember it word for word for years to come, because you keep it:
‘Dear Sophie, your eyes are like shining grapefruits. Your lips bloom like Venus fly traps. From HB‘
Fair play to whichever creative genius wrote that. Even though it was sent in jest… still one of the best you’ll ever have.”
“Valentines day, the one day of the year that is the same all the time – I never receive any cards! I mean, I don’t exactly expect people to dish out money on a crummy looking card for me or anything, but it just adds more proof to my famous hypothesis- I’m UGLY”
“You have literally just received a Valentines card from your childhood crush. We can ignore the fact it was a joke. You can’t be that ugly anyway, your eyes are like shining grapefruits, apparently.”
“*** told me that *** thinks I’m annoying – because I help people with their problems.”
“It will never matter what anyone does – or doesn’t – do. Somebody, somewhere, will always have a problem with it. Even in adulthood. But the useful thing is that they’ll never be the sort of people you wish to have in your life anyway, so stop caring about what they think and only concern yourself with the opinions of those whose opinions you actually value. “
And to end with something light…
“Went to Tesco’s. It was sooo embarrassing!! I was walking down the frozen food aisle, fiddling with my retainer in my mouth – when suddenly it fell out and went rolling along the floor – bouncing too. I knelt down (on) the floor and I couldn’t find it then this lady comes along and points to it, ‘Is that what you’re looking 4?’ “.
“I’m telling you this after two whole rounds of braces and an ongoing interest in Invisalign, because if you were still in school right now you’d probably still be getting referred to as ‘Bugs’:
Stop.Fiddling.With.That.Retainer. And wear it EVERY night. Forever”
Of all the 164858273 (or however many) articles I’ve written here, it’s still one of few that has had a life beyond this website. Thought Catalog published it, it had thousands of views worldwide, and was warmly received by a number of friends and acquaintances who shared it further.
An executive summary of “The Truth About Turning Thirty”? Well, essentially, it was about ignoring societal expectations and realising that ‘milestone’ years end up being a bit of an anti climax, and nothing to dread. In many ways, turning thirty was a relief. Didn’t have to think about it anymore.
Back in 2016 when I shared the article, a few older friends asked if I would do a similar piece in the future about turning forty. I remember wincing at that prospect at the time: “Forty?! I mean, I’ve just about handled turning thirty. Forty will be a whole new kettle of fat, oilyfish. Really not looking forward to that one.”
If I’d historically thought I’d be married with children by thirty, then forty was a whole new thing. Not only should I have definitely had a family of my own by that point – and beaten that biological clock so many warned of – I should have also nearly paid off my mortgage by then too, be worshipping Himalayan salt lamps and all things magnolia, wearing cream linen suits to buy yoghurt-coated macadamias in M&S, and preparing for early retirement.
Or so I thought.
(An image which proves why AI isn’t a complete threat to art 😉)
The reality is, I’ve still not married. In fact, the closest I’ve ever got to an engagement is putting a beef Hula Hoop on my forefinger whilst snacking, and I’m unlikely to ever be a mother. One thing our generation of females was brought up leading to believe was a must do in life, is pretty much not ever happening for me (for a number of personal reasons beyond age, plenty of people become mothers after 40)… but, the Earth hasn’t imploded afterall. My mortgage is still massive and – thanks to the state of today’s economy – I’m probably going to have to carry on working when I’m a skeleton that’s been six feet under for 50 years.
But the interesting thing?
I care even less about any of that than I did when I was ten years younger.
Because there are two things that happen concurrently as you age, and they both repel each other slightly.
The first is that you think you should be continuously developing, progressing, moving forwards, and all that jazz. Just like all those well-intended lifestyle influencers on social media, who punctuate their prose with new-age words like ‘up-levelling’ and ‘manifesting’ – and who make us feel guilty for drinking Pepsi Max instead of turmeric-infused liquidised tree moss – suggest.
The second is that you have an ever growing appreciation of how fragile life actually is. And that if you’re just here, breathing, seeing, experiencing – then actually that’s enough – and that thinking about the next goal, whilst having its place and purpose sometimes, can actually become quite exhausting if constant, and detract from the things most precious.
And the latter of those two things is the one I find myself bowing into the most these days. A global pandemic that fell within my ’30s contributed massively to that. Remember that weird time, when suddenly we all realised how the smallest things – like shopping for groceries and finding one person to walk with – were actually exciting, and what mattered the most?
Maybe because they are. Always were, always will be.
After something like that, all those social milestones which had been plotted into the land ahead got dug up and chucked into a household refuse tip along with all the other fads of the past.
But even without a pandemic, I think it still would have happened.
In essence, the older you get the more you realise that time and headspace is better spent on the things we have than what we don’t have, and how precious time is. It’s nice to dream about tomorrow, but not at the expense of today, which is incidentally the only time we ever really have.
And then – as much as we wish to deny it – there’s a third element too. One which wasn’t as visible at 30. One which I hadn’t felt the need to account for when I was ten years younger, writing my previous piece.
It’s that of age, and the natural impacts it has on the body. Key limbs or organs beginning to struggle (for me it’s my peepers, damn you, recurrent corneal erosion…). Lines on the skin requiring more and more latherings of cream. Grey strands battling the brunettes and blondes for ownership of your head, making you feel less like Cruella and more like a full-on witch, pining for the halycon – by comparison – Cruella days of the past. The body slows whilst the days and weeks around it seem to accelerate.
The brutal truth that we are closer to the end than when we turned 30, even if we still – hopefully – have a long while to wait.
And what does that really mean?
It means ‘just press play‘.
Just effing press it.
Dance to the song that’s playing right now. Though there may not be as many DJ’s, cocktails and 2am boxes of fried chicken to go with it as there were ten years ago, there’s still a rhythm in there somewhere. But, if it’s taking a little while to detect it, then it’s also fine to take a rest for a bit. (‘Superstition’by Stevie Wonder always served a great purpose as being a good time for a loo break in order to get back in time to celebrate the impending arrival of the Vengabus).
And eat more beef Hula Hoops.
Because ageing – turning forty – really isn’t a bad thing. At all.
(See you again when I’m 50. If I haven’t abandoned all things internet to join a magnolia-worshipping, tree-moss eating cult on some remote island in the Pacific).
There are certain things that feel hard to admit in public, particularly as a 40 year old female. But here we go:
I really don’t like yoga.
And that’s surprising, because as someone who’s always been in touch with my more spiritual side, yoga feels like the sort of thing I should love. And I really, really wanted to. But, after years of attempts that always concluded with me counting down the minutes until the end of the sessions, or having the instructor move my limbs to where they needed to be, I realised that I just… don’t. It’s a no-ga from me. I’ve downward-dogged for the last ever time, no more chances, or time wasted trying to like something that I probably never will.
I get why other people like it, though. I think all of us can benefit from more mindfulness within our daily lives, but what I’ve come to learn is that it doesn’t always have to be about things as disciplined as yoga, or meditating in a quiet room with strangers in a pretzel-shaped pose (and probably paying £15 an hour to do so). Instead, I think mindfulness and meditative activity can be practised anywhere, anytime, it’s just about figuring out what way feels right for you.
The other week I had to catch a train to London. Usually, I’d spend that time in the same way that most others do: doom-scrolling on my phone. Catching up with life admin. Conversing with people via WhatsApp. Watching reels about AI cats eating pastries. Basically, anything that fills up the time and makes the journey go faster… but pretty much always looking at a phone.
On this occasion though, I wanted to do something slightly different. I challenged myself not to look at my phone once throughout the journey, and to look out the window the whole time whilst listening to music (electronica, without any distracting lyrics) instead. To ensure my mind wouldn’t wander beyond what was right in front of me, I decided to jot down in my notebook all the things I saw along the way. Constantly. Pen to never leave the page, to ensure I didn’t drift. And here’s the output of those notes…
Technically speaking the first thing I observe are the golden, flakey remnants of my seat’s previous occupant’s sausage roll. It’s hardly the most inspiring start to my mindfulness challenge, but I did instruct myself to write down everything. And to some people, myself included at times (usually if hungover), a sausage roll pretty much is everything. So yes. This is a perfectly acceptable start, and I manage to swiftly shut down the resurfacing memories of all the best sausage rolls I’ve ever eaten (Wall’s caramelised onion circa 2012) to focus back on the here and now.
Succumbed to using AI for this image, because my phone ban during the journey also meant taking no photos!
The train rolls out of Faversham and I look out over a bunch of buildings, some of which are the homes of people I know, or knew. The house where my grandad grew up. The churchyard many of my relatives are buried at. My friend Dan’s house. The paddocks which were so lovely to walk around during the otherwise weird, balmy Summer of 2020. The grade II former manor house with the flat I looked around in 2018 which I really wanted but couldn’t afford, and still think about to this day.
The buildings become more and more sparse as we drift towards Teynham. Kentish orchards exposed by the December sunlight, their fruits both a distant memory and a chapter waiting to happen.
New housing developments: we need them, but why do they all have to look the same?
Sittingbourne. I always like to look out the window here, not for the aesthetics – of which there aren’t all that many in fairness – but for the fact my grandmother spent many happy years calling it home. The train runs adjacent to her housing estate and I’m amused by the fact her garage door has still not been painted in over 25 years – pillar box red when I was a little girl, now patchy and pastel. Maybe the white ’80’s Fiat is still behind it, and maybe grandma is still in the house, waiting to dish us up a plate of fishcakes and mushy peas and ask us how our journey was.
“Quite long actually, grandma. 18 years in fact.”
As we get ever closer to the Medway towns, I think about how – despite the downsides, like cost and waiting around on cold platforms with boney seats – train travel allows us to see so much of the area we live in ways that driving doesn’t allow for. This is far more interesting than the M2, and it reminds me of how beautiful and diverse a landscape Kent has.
Some washing hangs from a line in Twydall – a row of vests in blacks, browns and greys – before we pass a large cemetery. The winter sun is beating down over rows upon rows of headstones, shining light and life over those gone but not forgotten.
I can still remember where I was, and exactly what I was doing, when I learnt that the place is not pronounced “Twye-dall” but “Twidd-all”, and it still amuses me as much now as it did then.
“This post is starting to read like a load of old Twydall”, I imagine the reader starting to think at this point… and that would be a fair point to make, but I’ve yet to look at my phone on this train…
I spot the stadium of Gillingham F.C – Kent’s leading football club – but not for long, I predict. Surely Faversham Town F.C will take that crown soon? Champions of Europe, 2035. You heard it here first… there’ll be a procession around the Guildhall and the building which was once ‘Annette’s Baguettes’ and everything.
The train pulsates the veins of Chatham as we travel along the bottom of some steep verges. They are strewn with the gifts from fly-tippers and litterbugs: a jerry can here, a child’s plastic wheelbarrow there, all scattered about like some Generation Game finale, there to observe then try and regale from memory in a list.:
It’s always Lucozade bottles, and I’ve no idea why or how, since it’s not even the most popular soft drink. Maybe their slightly awkward, tall shape makes them harder to fit into bins? Or maybe – given the association with exercise – consumers prefer to try drop-kicking or throwing them in but miss, in a sign that they need to train more.
I’m thinking way too much about the aerodynamics of Lucozade bottles at this point, but I still haven’t looked at my phone.
At the next station, we begin to see the growing numbers of people with wheely suitcases. It’s fun to try and guess where they’re going, using the size of their cases to determine whether it’s a short or long break. There is a sense that the hustle and bustle will only increase from this point, as we get closer to the capital. Empty seats will become rarer gems, as more and more people – and sausage rolls – board the train to occupy them. I best move my bag.
Rochester, an historic old town peppered with lots of pretty old buildings and some not so nice new ones. The castle stands proudly at the top of the hill, and there’s even a sign to tell us exactly what we’re looking at!
Oh wait, no, that’s just a sign for the “Castle Hand Car Wash” that sits some streets beneath it. Not quite as postcard perfect as it could be.
“England’s largest second-hand bookshop” – Baggins Book Bazaar – is still there and visible from the train, but it no longer seems to have its claim to fame painted on the back of the building. Does that mean that there’s now a larger second-hand bookshop somewhere in the country? If so, what a gutting thing to have to do in having to paint over all that. I have only visited that bookshop once, which incidentally is the same amount of times I’ve visited Rochester, but it was quite an experience, – almost needed a map to navigate my way around – and am still very surprised that I was ever able to get out.
Many people get on board at Strood, which feels surprising since this is one of the smaller of the Medway towns. There isn’t a whole lot to see here, just Peking Express, which doesn’t appear to look overly inviting but nonetheless probably serves some tasty satay skewers. My belly rumbles.
We enter the first of the many long Victorian railway tunnels which will punctuate the rest of this trainline as we get into London. We are well and truly feeling the creeping clutch of the capital’s gnarly fingers at this point, the land around us turning from vibrant green into a more dismal grey. The buildings become taller, the sky starts to feel heavier, and everything is feeling a little bit busier. The back gardens are looking more and more unkempt, and I know less about this part this part of Kent, but have heard – multiple times – that it has lots of beauty to offer. I can believe that, as I scope the rolling golden hills in the background.
When the train arrives at London Bridge, I finally check my phone. All I’ve missed is a message confirming the meeting place, and an e-mail about my most recent utility bill.
But I haven’t missed much else. In two senses.
By the way, Lucozade bottle. Just because it’s been a few paragraphs, and they’re usually scattered about everywhere.
These words were said during a recent talk I attended by a wonderful local author, Simon Pollard. The sentence does sound a bit like the premise to a low budget slash-horror movie. Blair Witch springs to mind.
“…how can you be, when you’re surrounded by so many different living species, including the trees.”
I went on to learn from him that trees have heartbeats, albeit very slow ones. I was amazed by that (though probably wouldn’t want to admit to my tree surgeon brother that I hadn’t been aware of it before).
I’ve always adored and appreciated nature, even though I often feel that I know so little about it. Sometimes I feel that that makes me a bit of a fraudulent fan, but you don’t need to be able to identify every tree or be literate in compostable irrigation to truly enjoy it.
All you really need to do, is observe it, in every sense. To look at it. Hear it. Feel it. Inhale it. And yeah, you can taste it too… but you kinda need to know what you’re doing if you want to go down that route. I certainly don’t, but a foraging course with somebody who does is definitely on the bucket list.
You also need to treat it with the same respect you’d give any other living being. Don’t do any harm to it, and let it simply be itself.
I had a week off work and knew I needed a change of scene rather than be in the same flat I work from every day, but I didn’t really fancy going too far away. I found a gorgeous bell tent on Air BnB in a village 20 minutes from home and decided to head there for a few days to focus on my writing and do some new blog posts, like this one.
The description of the site included a lot of words like “remote” and “secluded”. To some people these are scary words, and in normal life, they are to me as well, but for this purpose, they were perfect.
To get there I needed to drive along a number of tiny country lanes that I’d never been down before despite having lived so close to them for years. It was late afternoon on the hottest day in June, and the sun was beating down a golden glow over the Syndale Valley. I could only catch quick glimpses as I was too paranoid about having a head-on collision with a tractor, but whenever I did, I felt a similar glow within.
I was greeted by a very sunny, cheerful lady – the BnB owner – and was then left to my own devices in what was definitely a remote, secluded location in the woods. But it didn’t feel like it. Anything but, actually.
There were birds. Lots and lots of them. I can’t tell you what they were because I’m no ornithologist, but maybe somebody who is can identify them for me from the below phonetics:
“Twiddlywoowootwit” (or maybe they were just insulting me, I guess I am a bit of a twit at times).
“Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt” (okay. There’s no need to labour the point!)
“mmmHMMHMM,hmmhmm” (fairly sure that one’s a wood pigeon. Think I know that one. Either that or it’s just a bird agreeing with all the other ones that spoke before it. B***h).
Having been sufficiently besmirched by my bird friends I wandered down to the meadow like the cheerful lady had recommended, and came across a gate which opens up to a beautiful looking valley. I wasn’t driving and there were no tractors to worry about at this point, so I could really afford to take it all in.
What a peaceful, glorious, hidden gem in the heart of Kent. A giant golden ingot in the middle of nowhere.
A few miles away from here, people are currently jammed on the ring road in Maidstone. A few miles in the other direction, they’re at the Costa drive-through in Sittingbourne, taking in breathtaking views of the Eurolink industrial estate . In Ashford, they’re steadfastly opening the windows on the High Speed trains in desperation for air.
And I guess I can’t leave out my hometown, Faversham, as the fourth corner in the urban rectangle that surrounds this field. In Faversham, they’re shoo’ing off the seagulls from swooping down to steal rashers of bacon off any more plates (as I’d witnessed earlier that day. And yes I laughed, because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m mean).
Back to the valley, and I just can’t fathom how a patch of land as magical as this exists and can feel so far away from the above, despite being so close.
I think about my love for Kent, and how it grows every day… or at least when I’m out discovering new parts of it. Watford was a great place to grow up, but its presence on my birth certificate is a bit like a dodgy tattoo that you try and cover with your fingers when anyone asks to see it. Kent feels more like home to me.
I walk into some dense woodland where I see a group of silhouettes in the distance. Sheep and goats, all gathered underneath the trees to escape the heat. They look at me suspiciously as I approach, and then start noisily BAA-ing to one another.
They’re probably insulting me too.
I walk in the other direction and see one standing completely alone.
“Were they rude to you, as well?” I’m tempted to ask, until he starts baa-ing at me too. I point in the direction of his friends in case he’s a bit lost but he’s reluctant to move.
Probably wants some space from them all.
I enjoy my explore, even if I have now been insulted by two different species and shredded my legs on a number of stinging nettles. It’s peaceful, and the surroundings are authentic. Authenticity is one of my favourite qualities, in anything – people, music, food – and it’s especially present in nature.
Magic happens when you just let something be its true self. To grow in the way it’s meant to. Stifle that for any reason, and you’re just left with something very underwhelming.
These trees have grown in the way they’re meant to, knobbly trunks and all. Those thistles didn’t grow with the help of a watering can, but with rain and sunlight. They haven’t been trimmed back. In nature, everything is as it intended to be.
I spend the rest of the evening writing away apart from having a small break to take an outdoor bath, an experience I recommend everyone do. I see a few planes overhead. One of them is flying from London to Tokyo, and I imagine all the passengers up there, 300 snippets of chitter chatter, and all the cutlery clitter-clatter.
But it doesn’t drown out the volume of the birds, as they flap against the bell tent and continue to insult me, a temporary guest in their home. I see a mouse run out from underneath the washroom, take one look at me, and scuttle away. Bit like some of those Tinder dates.
My heart smiles.
No, you’re never really alone in the woods. Try it.
The timing couldn’t have been worse, it was a busy Monday morning between important meetings and not only could I not get back online to attend said meetings, but nor could I boil the kettle to make myself a coffee with which to mentally deal with this drama.
Preliminary scoping of the problem suggested that only an emergency electrician could help me out here, so I got onto Google, did a few searches, deployed what I thought was a decent enough amount of due diligence and contacted the first one on my admittedly rushed list of contender soon-to-be superheroes.
He arrived 45 minutes later than promised and diagnosed the problem within seconds of pointing a technical looking thingy at my fuse box:
“Well, I’ve taken a look, and it looks quite a simple fix…”
My heart rose.
“…But it’ll basically cost you your left lung and a million pounds. So if you’re happy to just agree to all that right now and send over a 20% deposit along with all your remaining bags of Wotsits, I can get you back online within minutes, Ms Damselindistress”.
My heart sank.
I needed time to think.
So I thought about it.
And I thought that if that’s what it needed, if that was the only thing that would help me to carry on doing my essential tasks, then that’s what I’d just have to do, and worry about the cost later. I started to think about all the things I could sell to help fund this.
But then I observed a funny feeling inside, and considered the idea that this was all a bit quick and that this man might be a bit of a con artist.
And that he needed to leave immediately.
I channelled my inner Peggy Mitchell from Eastenders:
“GET OUT MA FLAT!”
Now clearly, it didn’t happen that way (although in hindsight I wish it had, as that would have been far more entertaining). In reality, it consisted of a sheepish call to my Dad for a second opinion and then politely, but also very socially awkwardly, asking the man to leave so that I could “process this”, and apologising for calling him out to effectively do nothing. So British of me.
“That’s fair enough, Mrs Kemzel. But everyone else is going to tell you the same thing. And they will charge you much more than we do.”
He left and – long story short – a more reputable electrician came a few days later and pretty much resolved the matter within minutes for a fraction of the initial quote. One 32nd of it, to be exact (I calculated it!). I then realised for certain, that I had been duped by the original guy. He had realised my knowledge of electrics barely extended beyond “switch it off and on again”, and tried to take advantage of that, to my – literal – expense. He created a problem that didn’t exist and threw jargon at me that he knew I wouldn’t understand enough to question, and I almost fell for it.
So what’s the point of this admittedly pretty boring story? Well, for one thing, it’s a lesson in realising that just because somebody might appear to be wearing the right badges and holding the right equipment, it doesn’t always make them trustworthy, or even right. It’s both hard and depressing to accept that there might be people out there with intentions that profit from the naivety of others, but it happens more often than we realise, and can have devastating, life-long impacts on vulnerable people.
I also thought more about our reliance on electricity and digital connection. There was a point during this encounter when I had my banking app open ready to depart with a considerable sum of money, not because I wanted to, but because I felt I needed to. And that’s a feeling that pretty much summarises most of our financial outgoings – bills, MOTs, boiler services, groceries (and I’m not talking about the fun stuff there, but the blendinthebackground omnipresents like celery and stock cubes) – all really boring stuff that doesn’t exactly excite us but is stuff we feel we need to pay out for because if we didn’t life would be a lot harder and we wouldn’t function.
Most of us sacrifice a lot of the stuff we want in order to pay for what we need. It’s a very lucky minority who don’t need to do that.
But I’d also argue that sometimes, we do actually need some of the things we want. We might be able to function without treating ourselves, but this life is too short and challenging to persistently do that without reprieve.
Being content and enjoying the limited time we have is also a need. Probably – definitely – the most important one of all, but when it comes to using money to buy things that can help us do this, it’s often the one we prioritise least, because we don’t get sent intimidating letters and our homes won’t fall down if we don’t do it.
I’m obviously not recommending that we all start spending our money irresponsibly, as that just makes things trickier in the long run, but I do think that sometimes we need to be as quick to consider handing over our cash for things that simply bring joy as we do for the more boring things that just support basic functionality.
Both because we want to, and because actually, sometimes we need to.
And if you still can’t convince yourself that it’s perfectly okay to treat yourself once in a while despite these tough economic times, then just pretend there’s a dodgy electrician in your home telling you that you should, and that if you don’t do it, your heart won’t function.
I could try, but I’m not sure I’d ever be able to put it more clearly and succinctly than Jessica Vincent in the opener to ‘The Best British Travel Writing of the 21st Century’:
“The essence of travel isn’t to move,it‘s to feel”
In my younger years, I had a very – in hindsight – generic and somewhat quite privileged view of travel. Get away from Watford! Go as far as you can go! See as much as you can see! Base the bucket list on a collection of landmarks so often read about – Niagara Falls, Angkor Wat et al – all out there to tick off like some kind of checklist from the Dorling Kindersley atlas that had fascinated me as a young child.
Yet, looking back, it was never the famous landmarks or the ‘ticking things off’ that made the biggest impressions during the more intrepid trips of my younger years. More often than not, they were impersonal experiences featuring crowds, tacky souvenirs, and overpriced ice-creams. It took me a long time to understand why these outings – though lovely and memorable in their own way – had seemed a bit underwhelming. I realised that the curated nature of these experiences – all designed to draw in and satisfy baying tourists – had led to an absence of feeling. I saw, but I didn’t really feel, to be honest, as it seemed like all the true facets of the culture I was visiting had been cloaked by consumerism. And for something to make a lasting impression, whatever it is, you need it to be authentic. That’s why nature never fails:
Over time, I’ve realised that distance – and even place – won’t necessarily determine how much of an impact a trip will have. The only reason we think they do is because invariably when we head further away than what we’re used to, we are more likely to see many landscapes and cultures for the first time, and this evokes the same level of intrigue as when we ever experienced anything else for the first time, home or away. Consider how excitable infants get over the smallest and most mundane things when they first see them – a curtain to hide behind, the way toilet paper unwinds if you roll it along a floor, a lifelike image moving on a flat screen. We get older and these things become less exciting, and it becomes harder to find anything new in the day to day, so instead we might turn to maps and identify all the places we haven’t seen yet.
And to some degree that works, but when it comes to it, it’s never really the places that matter but the special moments they’ve conjured, as those are when you really feel things. Away from home, these moments may look like inspiring conversations with people you’ll probably never see again, the scents of local spices, getting lost at night and managing to navigate your way back to an air bnb with an awkward lock, or the heartbreaking sight of a young mother placing her wailing toddler into the doorway of a bus that sits stationery in the traffic which chokes an Asian capital. She rhythmically shakes a plastic bottle filled with uncooked rice to make her little girl ‘dance’ – although it’s really a tearful stomp – in exchange for cash from commuters who pretend not to notice that either of them are crying.
These moments affect us because they stretch our senses to places they’ve never been, and see things in a way we’ve never seen. These moments are – as Vincent describes – ‘the essence of travel’, when it’s not just our feet that our moving but most crucially our minds, too.
And when you put it this way, it’s not wrong to think that ‘traveling’ should be about going somewhere far away, but it’s also not wrong to think that you can experience it much closer to home, too. Even from your lounge. An open mind and a few dashes of curiosity is all it takes. A willingness to let those same senses be stretched, even if it’s uncomfortable at times.
To open the eyes to their fullest. To welcome in sights and sounds that may forever change the way you think. To never say never, and to keep wanting to see more in order to open up these opportunities.
Because, like Vincent says, if travel isn’t about movement but about feeling, then let’s go and feel it all, now, wherever we are.
Song of the Day: Hey Marseilles – Rio
I think this is a really beautiful song and probably one of my all time favourites. I first came across it many years ago and loved what I interpreted it to mean. Older now, I interpret the meaning in a different way – which closely aligns with the content of this month’s post – and love it even more.
sophiekemsley 