Little news nugget for you. The whole concept of retail therapy is a myth.
I should know. This eejit treated herself to a manicure and new face cream and I still feel like stabbing someone in the face. It’s entirely my fault. I know this because that’s just how my brain works. I managed to completely work myself up into a massive frenzy between the time we said goodbye and the time I actually left Westfield.
Not that anything bad happened.
Au contraire, mon fraire.
Today was a massive day in Boydian history. I attended my first press event. Yep yep, an actual thing a writer does. It was the Windows 8 launch at John Lewis in Westfield Stratford. The staff was incredibly helpful and made me feel like I wasn’t a mahussive hack (who had forgotten to bring a notepad and pen, and so had to buy one in the London 2012 store next to the Stadium Suite, where the event was held). I desperately want to do this more often, by the way. I want to go into journalism.
After that, I found a shop that sells the BEST EVAR OMG macaroons in the history of ever. Seriously, every bite was like a tiny orgasm.
Then, I got a fast workshop on how to make a nori roll, by a Chinese cookery school that was demonstrating. The nori roll was amazeballs.
Then, I got my nails done. Bright yellow. Also amazeballs.
At the same shop (Tantrum, Westfield Stratford, scuse the promo) I got a customized bracelet for a tenner (it says LADY, of course).
Then I treated myself to a pulled pork sammich.
Then I bought face cream.
And then I went home and cried my eyes out because none of that really means anything after a while. Sure, the bracelet kicks bootay and my nails look stupendously good.
Still doesn’t make me feel like I can move mountains.
All I feel like is like the twat who bought face cream.
The twat who lives in a house with eleven other people (as opposed to her preferred residence, a pineapple under the sea) who she neither knows nor trusts.
Ach. I just feel like a twat.
A twat with face cream.
I don’t want to be a twat with face cream. I want to be not a twat in a nice flat with central heating and a kitchen that isn’t possibly lethal. I want a cat. I want to share my life with someone I love, and not feel like I’ve taken up residence in a backpackers hostel (stuck with nine Norwegians who are coincidentally all fans of Justin Bieber and know more about him than he probably does. This never happened by the way. It could happen to you though. Don’t hostel. Like, ever. PSA over now.)
Does that make me old?
I mean, I’m 21. I should be living it up and partying in Shoreditch (where apparently all Hip Young Folk go to do things to people with their tongues and other assorted limbery) with the rest of my flatmates. I should be off my tits on booze and should be sleeping around and and and.
Note. I did say should.
Doesn’t mean that I want. I could. But I don’t want to.
It’s in the Italics, really. What I want is peace and quiet, someone to come home to and a place where I can write. I want a job to support myself until I manage to crack writing.
And a cat.
A massive orange cat.