Friday, 14 June 2013

my dad worked in a purple building, once

And now a return to our regular programming: ME. 

Two and a half weeks 'til we move in to my new purple love shack (oh, I forgot to mention the house is purple? How...ashamed remiss of me!  It won't be purple for long...I hope.)

Oddly, this time last year, I was playing the waiting game too.  It was a matter of days before I finished my job.  I could not wait.  I had worked out a three month notice period (please read the word 'worked' loosely in that sentence, or feel free to swap it for "planned a trip and read the internet") and was a matter of five working days away from the end, itching for it to be over and the fun to be started.  This time, the rip-tide of work is threatening to pull me under but, never fear, I'm spending a whole swathe of time on design websites daydreaming about the contents of my new home.

O stylish yet uncomfortable looking couches! O quirky lamps and sideboards!  O printed tea towels with whimsical designs you SLAY me!

As sands through the hour glass, these are the days of my shallow, materialistic life: travel obsession replaced with house obsession replaced with homewares obsession...I really should find an obsession that is less me me me and more productive to society as a whole.  I'll get back to you on that.

So, I turn 31 tomorrow.  I had sort of forgotten about that whole 'my bday' thing this year - it got subsumed in the house excitement and, prior to that, the general worky malaise I've been suffering from.  What does 31 mean to me, apart from declining fertility, inclining fatness and broadening wrinkles?  Um, it means taking up the yoke of adulthood I suppose, given I'm chaining myself to a mortgage a few weeks later.  What were you doing when you were 31, or, assuming you're a delicate young petal who hasn't yet reached this golden age, what do you think you'll be doing when you're 31? 

Oh god, this game is a complete rabbit hole for me to fall down.  I'm keeping myself on a short leash here, but here are a few brief predictions:

- At 41 I'll have two smalls and a middle-aged hangover from being ridiculous with P & champagne;
- At 51 I'll have ditched the rat race and moved to the sticks where P has a vineyard; and
- At 61 I'll be living part-time in France, learning the language and working at a bar or cheese shop, with P making wine out the back.

I can but dream, I suppose.  More desires than predictions, but aim high, why not?  Happy 31st, me.

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