On growing up

Read on to find out why these are in any way relevant...

I'm not a proper grown-up yet. I know this because, firstly, I still live with my parents (no, it's not out of choice; how on earth would it be?); secondly, I can't drive; and thirdly, I still get excited about my birthday (it's a whole day about me -  with presents!).

At the moment, getting older doesn't scare me. Drummer Boy recently turned 25, and threw a rather half-hearted sulk about it - and shortly after, bought some yellow trousers. Should I be worried? Is that a symptom of the so-called quarter-life crisis I've read about on Buzzfeed? Anyway, putting DB's sartorial choices to one side, I've never really been fazed by getting older. I've wanted to be "grown up" since I was about six. (One day, I might get there.) It's a relief to be 24; it really is. Done with the awkwardness and uncertainty of being a teenager, I can finally crack on with putting together the person I actually want to be, without having to worry about being "cool" or whatever. I can be boring and totally embrace it.

Speaking of being boring, here's a handful of things I've noticed recently, that make me think I might well be sort of, nearly, almost a Grown-Up:

1) I bought a coat this winter. A warm, reasonably waterproof one - and while browsing coats, found myself saying over and over "I just want a coat that at least covers my butt". Yes, I'm officially my grandmother; someone find me a thermal vest. I was vindicated with this one, though; during a recent walk to work, I found - too late! - that my dress had ridden up and was somewhere around my waist. The people of Horsham would have got an eyeful of be-tighted thigh that morning - but I was wearing the coat. So I think I just about got away with it. I hope so, anyway - my route to work usually has me passing a sixth form college at about 8.35am...

2) I've overcome my intense bath apathy. I've hated baths for about ten years, and have only had them in times of severe weather or illness. But now, after a hard day's sitting down in an office, further sitting down in hot water and nice bubble bath is a treat I can enjoy for oh, all of twelve minutes.

(I mean really, what do people do in the bath? It's like being poached.)

3) I now take exercise out of choice. I have to coax myself into it like I'm tending a sick duckling, but I bloody well do it. It's mainly so I can eat and drink more, if I'm honest - you can't be greedy, vain and lazy, you can only pick two - but it does feel good. And after eighteen months, I now sort of miss it if I don't do it for a few days.

4) I like planning things: "I have a day OFF! We will get up before 10am, and we will go to this place, to look at these things! There's no time to lose!"

5) I have opinions about the following things: architecture, weddings, war, clickbait, unpaid internships, welfare.

I mean, I have opinions about loads of stuff - as I think you might suspect, by now - but those are some of the "official" ones.

6) I have sent emails chasing people to meet deadlines. I have actually typed the words, "Could I have that report by 12pm please Louise?" And then spent five minutes chewing the inside of my mouth going, "was that too harsh? She's probably swamped too. But we need that report or nothing will go out on time!" I'm never going to be anyone's boss. Least of all Louise's.

7) I like early nights now. Do I want to be out, doing shots, acquiring a hangover? No, I want to be in, drinking wine, watching Homeland, acquiring a classier breed of hangover - that's more "a bit fuzzy and tired" than "Christ, I think I'm dying, don't breathe near me please."

8) I know how much I don't know. All the writers I like and admire have read widely, and have all their references down, on everything from history to pop culture. Having spent 19 years in full-time education and only a few months in a full-time job, it's only just dawning on me now that there's still so much I need to cram into my little head. There really is no time to lose.



And here are three things that make me think I've still got a way to go:

1) I still don't quite know what my wine limit is, nor when to leave the pub. "We're in the middle of an amazing conversation about what the best Clash song is*/our plans for changing the world/what the best superpower to have would be - I'm not leaving! What do you mean, we have work tomorrow? Another round so we can solve this!"

2) I still have a blog. Go figure.

3)  I can't clothes-shop to save my life. I keep trying, but it's so... self-esteem-destroying. I have to seek refuge in Waterstones at regular intervals. You're never the wrong shape for books.

*Train in Vain, followed by Rock the Casbah, FYI.

Today, I've mainly been crushing on this guy, and these ones.

"Fashion changes; style endures."

Or, "fashion: the only thing so bad it needs changing every six months".

Alas, I can't take credit for either of those.

As the last three weeks have involved two blocks of working 6 days straight, and one three-day migraine (whoa, so many numbers), I took yesterday off, so that I could have an actual two-day weekend. I know, it's not easy being me. I've got so fed up of my clothes recently that I felt that a bit of a wardrobe overhaul was due, so I took myself to Guildford bright and early yesterday morning - because Horsham is God-awful for clothes shopping and Crawley is just God-awful all round.

I have a very on/off relationship with fashion - like most people, I should imagine. I can happily flick through Glamour/Elle/InStyle but when push comes to shove, I don't actually give a shit about trends. There are some things I totally object to, sartorially speaking - why would anyone wear a tracksuit outside of their house/a sporting facility? Why, also, would anyone let their Uggs meet any flooring surface that wasn't their bedroom carpet? Leather-look leggings - just why?

On the whole, I hate to look like I'm trying too hard. Indeed, I have to make a hell of amount of effort to look like I've made any effort whatsoever. I'm just not a fan of "too much". Big hair, dramatic eye make-up, statement jewellery, dresses that are in themselves a talking point - all things that look cool on other people. Just not me. I am not, nor will I ever be, one of those effortlessly elegant women, who always look perfectly put together, even when buying mangoes in Sainsbury's on a Sunday morning.

And traditionally, womankind as a whole is meant to love shopping. We're meant to be good at it, we're meant to be able to do it for hours. But I'm sure I can't be the only one who finds it's a lot like having your photo taken with Keira Knightley - you're never going to come out of it feeling anything but momentarily suicidal. Maybe I'm just getting hugely fussy in my old age, but yesterday's shopping attempt was about the opposite of successful. I just couldn't find anything that made me go, "that is so nice, I need it. Now." And that wasn't for want of trying. I even went into shops I normally won't go near, like Next (which is either too "officey" or too "harrassed-mother-on-the-school-run").

My thought processes went something like this:

Topshop - you have to be a borderline-anorexic sixth-former to suit 97% of their stock. I tried on a big slouchy cardigan, that was quite nice, but they didn't have my size.

Gap & Fat Face - nice enough stuff, but mainly casual. I need stuff that can do office and pub. One of my best friend keeps extolling the virtues of Gap-owned Banana Republic to me, but I think my nearest one would be in London.

Zara - I like the idea of Zara. I go in, and think, yeah, this is very me. Do I ever buy anything in there? No. Also, all the UK branches I've ever been to have been untidy, and I'm a neat freak, so this is a problem.

H & M - often good for basics like t-shirts, everything else is quite hit-and-miss, and I'm never totally convinced by the quality. That said, I have a couple of H & M tops that I wear a lot and they still look perfectly acceptable. If you ignore the odd hole and missing button and fraying seam... what? I wear my clothes hard.

River Island - Topshop on crack. Oddly, their jeans are great.

Oasis - very pretty and girlie, but edging towards too girlie.

Miss Selfridge - again, their jeans are pretty good. They have the occasional nice thing.

Primark - absolutely not. (Yes, I'm a snob, I know.)

New Look - good for inexpensive ballet flats. Everything else, nah, not really.

Dorothy Perkins - the rare flash of "that's actually really nice" - I have a stripey dress that is incredibly flattering and comfortable but also looks like I've made some sort of effort. But it's not often DP excites me that much.

Jack Wills - the only problem I have with their stuff is the price. The clothes are gorgeous.

Hollister/Abercrombie - see Topshop.

Argh. Who does a girl have to sleep with to get some decent clothes on the high street? (Probably a rich man, come to think of it. And then I could avoid the high street altogether. Wahey, a plan!)

Do guys have this problem? Is it just me being monstrously fussy? There is a chance I was slightly hormonal yesterday - I did text the Boy from a fitting room because I was having a hissy fit about feeling fat. Which only opens you up to ridicule when you're mostly a size 8. I didn't feel like a size 8, OK? There's a reason the most fun I had all day was in Boots. You don't have to be thin for make-up.

Right, that is more than enough from me. I was going to put this song up anyway, because it's bloody good - but the first verse is oddly apt. And she's just too talented.