In Praise of Instant Gratification

[eltd_dropcaps type=”normal” color=”” background_color=””]I[/eltd_dropcaps]’,m fed up of having to work at things. Does that sound bad?

The constant chipping away at those big projects – the house, the manuscript, the getting your life in order before deciding whether you might make decent parents at some point. Saving for a new pair of jeans. Waiting and waiting for things to slowly build before you can enjoy the rewards.

I want now.

Can Happiness be Found in a Moving Box?

[eltd_dropcaps type=”normal” color=”” background_color=””]I[/eltd_dropcaps]’ve done it a lot. Stuffing the things I love into cardboard boxes, sitting on suitcases to close zips over my books—a rollable library I refuse to have anywhere but in the aeroplane cabin with me, to ensure it gets to my new destination in one piece. Moving. Relocating. Starting afresh. I’m a dab hand.

How to Embrace Your 1920s Self

[eltd_dropcaps type=”normal” color=”” background_color=””]M[/eltd_dropcaps]ine is a familiar story. Woman in the 2020s has a plethora of demands on her, yet thinks she has it all under control. Turns out she doesn’t have it under control whatsoever, and so lies awake at night in a mild panic. Eventually plays sleep story via a meditation app to quell the impending to-do-list doom. Woman enjoys sleep story set in the 1920s so much that she heads out the next morning, buys a time machine, and waves goodbye to her 2020 cares. Bliss.

The Good Life: Learning To Live Again

[eltd_dropcaps type=”normal” color=”” background_color=””]I[/eltd_dropcaps]t was three years ago. I was completely fucked.

In and out of hospital, barely able to haul my petrified body out of bed. Diagnoses of leptospirosis, post viral syndrome, chronic fatigue syndrome, postural hypotension, sensory intolerance, multiple food intolerances, oesophagitis, gastritis, peripheral neuropathy, neurological damage, histamine intolerance, anxiety, and ‘tropical disease unspecified’ attached themselves to my identity with more velocity than getting five different colours permanently streaked through my hair and buying baggy ripped jeans did when I was seventeen—who was I now? A medical anomaly. A sick person. Fucked.