A tiny, insignificant detail.

I'm sat in my living room. I've just had a bowl of Weetabix for my tea and I'm listening to the sound of my neighbour furiously vomiting through the paper thin walls that separate us. So glad I’m paying out of my arse to live in London…

I once had a boyfriend at university, horrible mind you, give me the most insidious bout of food poisoning. It came upon me whilst I was on my way back home to Wales, and it was there I realised two things: 1) Megabus toilets are not fit for spewing up a mixture of Easter eggs and Sunday roasts, and 2) I really needed to split up with that awful boy. Thankfully, I did.

London, for the most part, has chewed me up and spat me out again since moving here. She really hates me. If I think about it for long enough my chin starts to wobble, and my throat does this jarring thing where I feel like I’ve swallowed a snooker ball. Last summer, I seriously thought I’d be able to do it; be able to drink posh wine with all the new friends I’d have made as I'd watch them smoke a sacred pack of menthols. Or whatever twenty-something year old's do in London. Instead, I’ve become this tiny, insignificant version of myself who I can’t recognise for the life of me.

Reader, I’ve put off wanting to confront this because I’m so bloody lucky in every way possible. I have a job, a warm home and a stomach full of Weetabix made with hot milk and sugar. But I’m just tired. Tired of the pretending; constantly trying to convince myself that this cosmopolitan life is worth it. It’s not. Frankly, it’s a crock of shit. I’d give it all up tomorrow if I weren't bound to tenancy agreements and job contracts.

All I really want is my Mum. A version of us where we’d be walking along the coast somewhere, maybe Cornwall or Tenby, with a newspaper cone full of chips decorated in vinegary ketchup. I want her to tell me that I can breathe. Properly breathe. None of those I'm-worried-about-car-fumes shallow breaths I take in every day as I walk along the A10. 

I think one of the most horrible parts of growing up is realising I’m not as brave as I thought I'd be. I'm not brave enough to face admitting defeat. Objectively speaking, there’s nothing stopping me from leaving my flat early and quitting my job. There's nothing stopping me from working to find that feeling of comfort I miss so much. However, for some reason, I much prefer to seek out all the new and exciting excuses as to why I can't leave. Which leads me to question: am I a bit of a masochist? A massive coward? Are the two mutually exclusive? 

Anyway. I continue to put up with vomiting neighbours, and only let myself think about the little wooden fork I’d eat my chips with until after I’ve gone to bed.