Nineteen

In 10 years I’ll be 29.

Fuck.

Looking back, 10 years doesn’t seem like a long time. It was 10 years ago that I was 9. I can’t remember anything about being 9 but for some reason I vividly remember being 7. I remember jumping on my bed in pyjamas screaming along to the Spice Girls, and making dens under my bed and writing a list of rules as high as my door for anyone that came in my room. No one came in my room.

The scary thing is that there’s a lot I’ve always assumed I will have done by the time I’m 30 (See 37 for an almost definitive list). There was also a lot I assumed I would have done by the time I was twenty, but then again, when you’re five you think twenty’s really old (also my chances of becoming a princess were never that good to begin with, but hey, I’ve still got a year.)

Surprisingly university never came into my life plan when I was little, it was only when I was leaving school that the idea that I could do with further education crept into my mind. It was only a few years ago that I thought I would be a doctor or a midwife. Thank goodness I was shit at biology.

I’m glad I discovered I was good at English, and I’m glad I’ve focused on it more, because although it feels scary to specialise your life as it were by focusing on one particular subject (I’ve completely given up on maths) it makes the whole thing more rewarding when you know you’re good (or reasonably good) at what you do.

But as I’ve always said, a person’s job doesn’t define them. Not even nearly.

I’m content as I am at the moment – I’m where I want to be with who I want to be with. More or less. I’m happy because I know that I’m on my way to becoming the person I’m supposed to be… and I’m sure she’s bloody fantastic.