Admit it. You totally got that lyric reference.
I recommend you listen to that song and imagine you are fifteen, with one of those gross ice drinks and the windows of an older friend’s car are open, with the low-grade sound system blasting this across whatever place it is you can’t wait to leave.
This week has been like a leaving present from my student/gap year life. I am sunburned across my shoulders, and have done nothing I didn’t want to do, which I think is the mark of time well spent.
I have discovered the most beautiful parks imaginable, replete with surprising swimmers, almost-nudists, public toilets that make your skin crawl, drowsy dogs, pleasure grounds, and long shadows.
In terms of food, I have been extremely spoiled, as the curious machine at the doctor’s surgery told me when I registered. In Scotland, where we live fast and die young, nobody bothers to take a urine sample, your height, weight and blood pressure when you register somewhere new. They certainly don’t have a machine that combines these tests (except the urine sample. You still have to go into the toilet whilst a receptionist yells not to fill the sample bottle too full at top volume across a waiting room of people with nothing better to do than listen intently.)
So imagine my trepidation in this brave new world as the machine, despite prophesying doom regarding my weight, ‘couldn’t find’ my wrist in the funny wrist hole.
I am surprised my wrists are not fatter. I have had the most wonderful food all week, despite the shard of glass I found in an aubergine mezze (I ‘found it’ by trying to chew it, and the restaurant owner seemed remarkably unconcerned that his food was sprinkled with glass, but then where is the delight in food without the outside possibility of death?)
There has been such a quantity of frozen yogurt, mainly to counteract the heat whilst retaining a gross sense of smugness.
My friend came to stay and we spent a lot of time in the most beautiful wool shop ever, Loop in Islington:
We also hung out in yet another park, this one just behind my house:
Lest you think my week has been entirely composed of verdure, there was also a twenty-minute period of several people trying to dance along to Beyonce’s ‘Single Ladies’ dance whilst my new housemate filmed it.
I got ‘-3 for effort’ – an entirely just mark, but I like to think I pulled it out of the bag for ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’.
There has also been a spate of buying stationery, because I start my new job TOMORROW. I am still convinced that a)it is all an elaborate ploy and I have no job; b) they will fire me on the first day; c)I will fall down the stairs/ flash the CEO/ cry/ faint/ spill food on myself; d) I will be late/unable to get there – you get the picture.
I am also a little concerned that I have to be there, 9-5 (ish), Monday-Friday, FOR REAL. Never in my entire life have I had fixed hours like that, or at least not for long. How incredibly petty, I know, to be concerned for my sanity within perimeters everybody is constrained by, to bemoan my lot in any way when I have had over 23 years of, essentially, glorified dicking about.
So, in honour of my last day of dicking about, I have eaten chocolate for breakfast, and fully intend to go and sun myself in the park for half an hour before starting on my ironing.
It seems I have finally GROWN UP.