The 22 Club

By the time I've finished writing this and have posted it I will be 22.

This doesn't sound like a massive issue. And it isn't. In fact, I'm having a rather splendid week as of now - essays are written and printed, there is a bottle of rose in the fridge ready to crack open for breakfast, I am going out tomorrow night with mates, and on Friday myself and the Hose are having a joint merry bash with all of our lovely mates at uni. It's actually a double celebration in two ways - the 22nd year of life and also our 3rd anniversary as birthday bum chums Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum. I don't know what I'll do next year... actually, yes I do, I'll be travelling with Bell, so ideally I can drink rum and puff some sheesha/hash (depending on country) and get merry in an entirely hippy backpacker manner.

There are, however, certain problems that come with being not 21 anymore. 21 is the last age where it is completely acceptable to be in girlish high spirits (drunk) and to be completely obvlivious as to a career plan. Now, my girlish high spirits still tend to reach St Trinian levels (and I mean the genius Ronald Searle illustrations rather than Rupert Everett in drag), and I my only office experience as yet is a week's work experience at an independent publisher's in Evesham. I feel like by now I should really have something I can say I can do that is useful to someone who would like to pay me lots of money for doing it (this blog and being able to do some exceptionally authetic Sixties dancing do not count).

This is why I'm going travelling, to discover myself and find out what I actually want to DO.

This is basically a lame way of saying that I have no clue and therefore wish to waste yet more time before I'm forced to pick something, or face the endless stream of rejection letters...

You see, this is why getting old is not fun. I would like to skip to the bit where I go travelling, and then skip again to the bit where I get a job I vaguely enjoy, even if it's only because I have a hot colleague to flirt with when I get bored. I don't know, just... oh good lord, 10 minutes.

Also, once you are a responsible adult, are you allowed to have pictures of hot dancer men on your walls? Or is this only allowed until you leave university? Answers directed via the comments box please...