Well, it’s Monday morning. The first Monday morning, in fact, since I started up this little space of heavenly blogging. I fear that the only people visiting the blog are my mandem and my mum (hi mum), but if by any chance you’ve stumbled upon here through a misread link or something, I’ll tell you a little bit about a Monday morning in my life…
So on paper, my job sounds pretty cool. I work in the East London hipster haven of Shoreditch, surrounded by delicious street food, slightly (incredibly) overpriced vintage shops, and men with moustaches. While this is all well and good, it comes with the realisation that I’m actually uncool as fuck, getting fatter by the day and emptying my bank account into the ‘Mother Clucker’ chicken shack (I should seriously have shares).
I’m actually a writer, which again sounds pretty cool on paper. I graduated this year after three years of unrelenting hell studying English literature at the University of Sheffield (a story for another time), so I guess I’m one of the scarce ‘lucky ones’ which jump into a job out of uni, and one of the ‘even luckier ones’ who work in their field of study. In the harsh reality which we all must face up to in our twenties, I’m not quite living the dreams of my youth just yet.
When I was a young teen, I was fortunate enough to go on a family holiday to Florida, during which I got up close and personal with Shamu the killer whale. While, yes I have seen Blackfish and yes I agree that keeping orcas in captivity is wrong, I was at the time a 12 year old child, and blissfully unaware of poor Shamu’s situation, so please forgive me.
So anyway, there I was enjoying the show and waiting for Shamu’s big finalé. For those who haven’t been, there’s a section of seating towards the front reserved as a ‘splash zone’. Being a fearless joker, I sat myself down in the splash zone and prepared for some hilarious and enjoyable splashing. To my incredulous (and idiotic) surprise, Shamu swam in salt water, and I found myself under a ten-foot wave of salty horridness. Shamu had been the first stop of our day, and so the rest of my Seaworld experience was spent trying to soothe my aggravated skin and walking like the Michelin man to avoid any chafing which would irritate the salty shite further… And that was when I knew I wanted to be a whale trainer.
You may be wondering why on earth I’ve just told you about my time in the splash zone. My (weak) point is, that although I may feel like I’m not fulfilling that wild and extremely unachievable dream of being a whale trainer (my skin reacts to salt water), its important to remember that the young you might not have had your best interests at heart. Isn’t that cringey; does this sound like a self-help piece? Let’s hope not.
In entirely unrelated news, my Monday morning perusal of today’s news has found an absolute gem of a story. Conservative MP Nigel Mills has come under fire this morning for bashing out no less than two hours of Candy Crush, during a commons committee hearing about pensions. Besides the fact that two hours of the Crush will have set him back about £20 in extra lives, old Millsy has probably lost himself a great deal more than £20 worth of elder voters in his constituency. What a prize prick!
Have a great Monday.