Scaredy Cat

Hello world, I've grown quite fond of you. How's life these days?

I found myself, quite recently, with the unavoidable mission of negotiating the London subway. Although for the most part, my hand was held and led by a friend, I still felt ravaged by terror. It's the lack of certainty. It's the need to get from A to B without any comprehension of the journey between. A kind of panic that sees me hopping from foot to foot in front of the departure board wishing myself a little less cowardly.

On the way back (alone) I drank coffee for bravery. Caffeine never fails (when consumed in large quantities) to turn my pupils giant, and plant a great, impatient desire for adventure. I spent a lot of time in Kings Cross, fuelled by mocha, face in the local paper, craving all the London-based fun on offer. I love it all, well, all the limited places my infrequent visits have led me: London Bridge, Richmond, Camden markets, Spitalfield, Brick Lane, the list goes on. I want to eat all my breakfasts in Patisserie Valerie, and be part of the commuting, buzzing flux. In London, I feel like a writer, an identity I have all but lost. First and foremost these days my prime label is 'office girl'. I have decided to live, as Dolly Parton once sang, from nine to five. I make excuses. I type my way through months, imagining more, bigger, bolder, better. But I rarely change anything.

And of course it would be a group of strangers, accompanying me on my train between Leeds and London, who would chide me, and make me ashamed of it. We were drawn together over the book Sheila, the dermatologist was reading, 'Three cups of tea.' I was writing about my grandad, and my childhood, growing sick in the face of the speeding view. But soon it was kindles, and politics, autobiographies, Anne Frank, London's merits, the NHS. I got off the train feeling charmed by the randomness. I guess one thing my job is teaching me to do is talk, talk like words don't always have to hold great worth. I am quickly becoming an exemplary small talker. They said they would wait for my book, look for my name. Like the English Teachers before them who believed in me, like the glorious friends who flash in and out. And yet I'm 24 tomorrow, and have done very little, it would seem, to try.

Come on then son, get your finger out.