It's a funny old juncture I've reached; certainly one I had never anticipated. It's now fifteen months since I moved to London for what was intended to be a stop-gap role in the beauty industry that paid the rent with decent change whilst I found my 'ideal' role.
The dream, in everyone's eyes, was being lived. Once again the parents were lavishing me with praise as I excelled against my peers, all caught up in career indecision. I had not but hesitated.
Of course, the parents and peers still look at me wearing the same rose-tinted spectacles. But it's also now fifteen months, since the 'recession' noticeably touched down, and fifteen months since the love of my life decided my time was up, again perhaps, for that lack of hesitation in moving.
All of which now leaves me in the place one could never have envisaged just fifteen short months ago. Riding the job application and dating merry-go-round, a quintessentially lost Londoner perennially weighing up their love and career options.
Constant listening to Coles Corner can't be helping this. But I can't help but think Richard Hawley's epic of loneliness is my little Yorkshire affinity lived out 170 miles further down the M1. Thank you Richard.
