Hey honeys, I’m home!!! This blog home, but also home home. HOOOOOME! That’s what life feels like in this moment; home! Perhaps only this moment though. It might not tomorrow. It didn’t yesterday after all.

Mainly because I’m reluctantly strapped onto an emotional rollercoaster, one that I’ve been an unwilling passenger on for the past year or so. The peaks are good there’s no denying it – apparently you can be simultaneously depressed & sporadically euphoric – but they lead to even greater troughs & oooh they be bad. Not MJ eeeh heeee bad; fearing going to bed bad, sobbing like a banshee ‘til dawn bad, panic attacks bad, suicidal ideation bad. BAD.

It began noticeably around Autumn 2022. I say noticeably because a whole swathe of issues had been plaguing me beneath the surface for a very long time; my brainless job, a lack of purpose, my seemingly hopeless quest for love, the sorry state of the planet… the even worse state of humanity… The disquiet would resurface cyclically & I would pacify my soul sufficiently to get by, hoping, in truth, that the next relationship would fix everything. Yep, my grand plan was based on a man… one I hadn’t even met yet. Solid Jade, solid. No surprise then that my undoing was triggered by yet another failed romance. One that cut particularly deep. CBA to get into it now (more book fodder sorry) but he dumped me during sex, enough said.

Actually is it enough? No, no its not. Here’s the real kicker… Sure, I was on the edge of an orgasm, & he has possibly given me a PTSD-like, climax complex (I wouldn’t know, its barely been tested since, waaaah) but when pressed with why he was calling quits on our fledgling fling he answered because “you are too much”. OOH he went there. Now, had I been steeped in my divine feminine power (as I had been previously) I would have risen like a phoenix from those sweaty, crumpled bed sheets & bellowed “YOU MEAN YOU ARE TOO LITTLE”, which would have been fantastic listening for any neighbour tuned into that afternoons activities. But instead the tear duct dam broke & an unstoppable deluge of pain filled my body. I’d been here before of course: the literal, point blank ghosting with zero explanation after 3 holidays in 3 months by a French casanova (SAVAGE), the dating app snubs post Instagram reveal, the “I always thought you were weird” comment by a previous flame, the Mr Panama fiasco… the list goes on… The last few years had been hellish dating wise & this was yet more evidence that I, Jade was unlovable. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to be.

It was also around this time I read a book by the incredible bell Hooks called Communion, a fantastic take on the female search for love, which, & I’m sure this wasn’t her intention, sunk me to deeper depths of despair. It highlights the difficulties of loving & being loved in a patriarchal society & I read it as if it were Doomsday; the dating edition. But it made sense, as far as I had experienced &, to be perfectly honest, continue to experience, my vision of love is unattainable. Yes there are a few fortunate souls that stumble across twin flame alignment & all that jazzery pokery but for the most part humanity is fooked, thanks to a patriarchal, capitalistic society that has none of our best interests at heart. So with little to hold onto I spiralled. I was 38, eccentric AF & without any of the culturally accepted landmark successes under my belt; single, never married (not even a proposal), no children, no mortgage, no career*, no bulging bank balance, no talents, no awards – unless you include the prize for most improved German speaker in Year 8. A language I now can’t even say my own name in (unless drunk, then oddly it all comes surging back).

*One thing I did have was a job, a job I’d held on & off, but mostly on, for SEVENTEEN YEARS! SEVENTEEN! Let that echo… teeeeen, teeen, teen…. Mad! I hesitate to say career because how much pride can you take in work that simply requires you to get dressed multiple times a day? Answer: minimal. I expect anyone sat reading this now is at least partially clothed. See, you are as qualified for my job as I am. Well done.

Nb if you are a naked blog reader then kudos to you too, though I imagine naked blog reading is more a choice than an inability.

Naturally, as a fittings model I did have to measure a certain way. There is a spec to adhere to on pretty much everything from diameter of my wrist to length of my undercarriage but between you & I, I was failing to meet criteria. The depression rendered me immobile most days, my step count woeful & my waistline was about the only thing blooming about me. The easiest job in the world & I was even failing at that.

Sorry, did I mention this was a pity party… Do come in! Join, BYO violin.

Look, I know I am incredibly privileged, by practically every measure there is, here I was weeping in a one bedroom flat in centre of most affluent neighbourhood in Cambridge for gods sake; the rent discounted courtesy of my parents! I KNOWWW <hangs head even further> I have every benefit going, I am beyond fortunate, & that truth only served to make me feel worse. All this privilege & what had I done with it – nichts (that means nothing in German, & YES I had to look it up, I’m not currently drunk).

Despite me hunting the planet, dating half of London – some of them twice including once unknowingly. (Get this, I didn’t realise until, enroute to the date, I transferred his number from the app into my phone, & not only did I already have it, I’d already BLOCKED him. FML) The happily ever after future I felt promised to me from Disney had failed to materialise & it felt like grief & with my only real interest in life being love, existence felt pointless.

I knew intellectually this was rubbish of course. I had my sister, my parents, incredible friends, sunshine – intermittently of course, this is UK after all, bike parties, sequins, hot showers, walks in nature, Pitbull of FIREBAAALL fame – (the singer that is, not the dog – no no no, I don’t like dogs – sorry not sorry. I’m weird – I, & that pillock Aaron, did warn you). All these things brought immense pleasure ordinarily but on a backdrop of zero hope of romantic love they failed to rally me.

And so I retreated. I deactivated social media, I stopped dating, I refused to go on holiday. I reduced my life to work, therapy & my Cambridge circle (& even then I would bail on 70ish% events by my rough estimates). I knew I had to find a way out so I minimised my world in order to make sense of the misery I was in, the less variables the better. However whilst the therapy did help through some truly dire stages, what I really needed was action. Inertia had set in in a big way & I had bought in heavily to this notion of self analysis, gazing inward as a means to find my true authentic self, the one not utterly absorbed in romance, to discover what I really was about, for a clear truth to manifest… but really I had the answer already… well enough of the answer anyway… which was simply “not this”. Not crying every damn day staring at the same flipping wall, not telling a near enough stranger for £80 an hour what the size, shape & colour my feelings are, not magically expecting my life to change. No. DOING. Doing is what I needed. The plan had to involve doing. I had to take a leap.

In December 2022 I got supremely close. I got up from my chair in my little cubicle at work where I changed day in, day out & headed for the door. I’d had an almost epiphany like moment of lightening bolt intensity. This feeling, henceforth known as “Leaver”, vs its nemesis feeling “Remainer”, (named purely for my own amusement – zero Brexit analogy here, where leaving is admirable & great, as opposed to reckless & shit) reverberated through me like a 9.5 on the richter.

LEAVER: “No more, get out of here Jade, it’s not for you anymore”

I placed my hand on the door handle, but I stopped in my tracks. I needed reassurance.

REMAINER: “But what will I do for income? How will I support myself? What is it I will actually do?

Leaver: “Who cares you are miserable you effing eejit, even if you earned a billion bucks. This agony must end.”

Remainer: “Yes but to do what? This is the only job I’ve ever had. I don’t know anything else.”

Leaver: “But don’t you trust yourself to find out?”

Remainer: “I guess… I mean I do, I do, but shouldn’t I have a plan & a clear strategy?”

Leaver: “You haven’t come up with one yet & you’ve been thinking about it for an actual decade! C’mon, you’ve had this experience a million times over by now, what are you waiting for?”

Remainer: “But what about staff shop?!”

(Explainer: staff shop is the sequin hunters dream of all dreams, a cut price heaven of discounted sample garments, many of which with hidden swatches taken out of key areas which further contributes to an addictive, variable reward type system that has you salivating like a lab rat for unnecessary purchases 24/7)

I ring my mum. She interprets my trembly voice quite rightly as indecision, as anyone would & tells me to sleep on it; not to make any rash decisions. I sort of agree.

It felt impulsive, it felt rushed, the notion to do it right now, right this minute. It came almost out of nowhere – not strictly true given backdrop of anguish I had been in for months – but in that moment it was urgent. Super urgent. So what did I do? I overlooked my crystal clear instinct & agreed to sit back down & think about it. I checked the climate in Bali in January on my phone (don’t ask me why Bali, so blimin’ cliché. I guess Eat Pray Love was working overtime in my psyche) & it informed me it was wet season, a monsoonal type of rain that sometimes doesn’t stop for weeks at a time. I sighed, my enthusiasm waning, I’ll sleep on it I thought.

Well, that sleep lasted the next 10 months. In that time I continued to go through the motions of life, trying to understand what was wrong with my seemingly cushty, perfect life, a life I had loved for the good majority. Gosh in the early days I LOVED LOVED my job; it’s social, its fun, no responsibility, easy hours, great pay, it’s CUT PRICE SEQUINS FFS!! Sometimes I even had an input on design! Fits were fun. Fashion was fun. Fun- my middle name. But somewhere during the last few years I could no longer summon the enthusiasm. Deep down I knew I was capable of more than just shimmying into skinny jeans & making almost any lurid colour look good (& there’s me saying I have no talents) but what I didn’t know was exactly what I could forge a career in. You hear so much these days about purpose – what do you love? Follow your bliss! For me these exercises are always perpetual dead ends. I have zero experience in anything! No CV or qualifications (except a long expired, generic undergrad 2:1 nobody gives a hoot about nearly twenty years later) & nothing I like doing lends itself particularly well to monetization. I mean, if there is a job that consists of riding around on a bike decorated in tinsel, wearing an oversized squirrels tail, shouting compliments at people then please get in touch. However all I can ever come up with is, I like dancing, preferably alfresco, in sunshine… so what’s that then? A DJ? Specifically an outdoor festival DJ!? Are you on crack?! At nearly 40 years old with a truly mortifying annual Spotify Wrapped & an increasing preference for early nights that ship has long sailed matey. & the elephant in the room lets address that, you are reading this, so you can gauge I do kinda like writing but how do I make writing, which appears to be exclusively about myself by the way, a career? Sure, I am thinking of having a go at this book publication malarkey but who is reeeeaaaally gona buy it? I can put my Mum down for a few copies definitely, & my Dad too tbf, Auntie Jen… maybe even cousin Jane. Can I put YOUR name down too for a pre-order? Yeh YOU, non naked blog reader! Go on cough up…. <my hand outstretched before you> SEEEEEE I got to be realistic! You won’t even subscribe for blog updates <eyebrow raise> or will you… (a little reverse psychology never hurt anyone).

So are you with me? I’m gona need a hell of a lot of people paying $1.99 on kindle, especially with Bezos taking <insert ridiculous percentage here> to fund his intergalactic real estate mission now he has fucked life on Planet Earth for the rest of us. So I continue staring at that fit room wall, wiling away hour after hour, week after week, slowly but surely eroding my own self respect. That is, until one day in September 2023.

It had started out as any other normal day (cor what a classic line that is. I think this might signal the pinnacle of my blogging days). My cars engine had blown up a few months prior & I had been using my parents car, except now I had managed to blow that engine up too (lesson: don’t lend me your car) so I had been forced into taking the train for last few weeks & giving away half my wages for the privilege.

I sat in a middling carriage, on the window seat, of a seat formation of 6, facing forward – just to give you all the deets in case a movie is ever made. I did my make up, moved my bags around as more & more people got on, listening to my audiobook throughout. Then after departing Bishops Stortford the unimaginable happened. I saw someone I knew, that I actually liked enough to talk to. SHOCK HORROR! This never happens on British Transport! I’d oft dreamt of the day that either Ashley or his wife Kelly would get on at Bishops Stortford & today it was a reality. I coo-ey in his direction, complete with wave to get his attention & before you know it I swap seats with the young lady in the middle & he’s clambering in beside me & hey presto, we begin an uber personal conversation, detailing the depths of my depression in a silent, yet bursting at the seams, Greater Anglia, commuter train to London Liverpool Street. Excellent. Everyone around us visibly squirms. Never before has anything but pleasantries been uttered on a train at this time in the morning but they have no choice but to listen. A captive audience on this otherwise hushed journey, poor babies. And now, bless your cottons, you semi are too… This is how it went…

Firstly I should mention, Ash is a professional actor, as is his sensationally gorgeous wife Kelly & we went through the usual life catch up. He was on his way to teach the last day of an acting workshop at Southbank centre, she was busy recording a Christmas commercial for a global enterprise; one you’ve all eaten in, even if you say you haven’t. Tomorrow he would be doing something else; another job, in between running from casting to audition to casting, & then a meeting, & then they’d both be flying to Paris for fashion week & ….wow, just wow. It all sounded so VARIED & passionate. He loves his craft & it showed. I pleaded with him in my mind not to return the question but of course… here it comes…hold tight…

“So what have you been up to?”

This is genuinely the second worse question, after “what do you do for a living?” anyone could ask me at this stage of my desolate life. The previous week my sisters mates mum had innocently asked me “what I do”& I just wanted to curl up on the spot & die, screaming “erm fucking cry”. Instead I stammered for what seemed like an eternity & turned to my sister like an absolute toddler & asked, “India what do I do for a living?” Yes, I had to ask my sister what my job is in front of an adult audience. For the love of sweet baby J, what is going on?! But I just couldn’t bear to answer. It didn’t feel true to say a model. I’m not a real one anyway, not a proper one. I’ve never really been able to call myself that. In earlier days I might have said clothes horse or hanger, more recently I might have said just a vague “fashion” & on a confident day, like a twat I would say “I’m the body of River Island”, yes those words came out my mouth, what a knob, anyway, that was no longer the case, technically I was too fat. I felt fraudulent.

Anywayyyy, back to the sardine tin of a train carriage. Concentrate. Ash is still there patiently waiting for a response, & with no one else to ask, I had best come up with something myself. I hesitated some more & rolled my eyes in back of my head. WHAT. HAD. I. BEEN. UP. TO? I rack my brain, my mind flitting through a mental rolodex of an abyss of a canyon of air – nothing. Ok soooo how about… yesterday I cried by the river sat on a pack of sanitary towels to cushion my arse after a woman pushed past me in the street? Hmmm nope… Okay, last weekend I won life by extracting the maximal value possible from a discount code from Gousto & made myself sick by overdosing on crabmeat? No too early for vom chat. Ooo I know, my aerobics class has been asked to perform at the Xmas tree light switch on in the local shopping centre? Yehhhh, hard pass. He has just finished a run on the West End, my ego cant take it.

“Erm” I venture, “you know, same ol’ same ol’, trying on the ol’ clothes… woo.” Followed by a forced grimace.

“Oh you are still at River Island?” he responds, not knowing the absolute minefield he is stepping on, like poking one of those condom water bombs (that’s a thing right?) that have been filled to absolute capacity, this time with tears, just raring to explode any second given the slightest touch.

“Yeeeeeeeeh” I manage to eek out “just the seventeen years now”. I steady my voice. “Actually-I-have-been-thinking-about-quitting-got-to-be-done-can’t do-this-forever-for-effs-sake-the-other-day-they-measured-me-&-I-had-an actual-breakdown-bursting-out-crying-hysterically-claiming-the-aliens-had-screwed-with-my-managers-measuring-tape-because-there-is-no-way-I’m-plus-5cm-in-the-mid-hip (erm yes way) just-cant-be-true-so-secretly-I-do-actually-believe-the-aliens-have-got-something-bigger-in-mind-for-me-course-my-therapist-wants-me-to-go-on-antidepressants-she-diagnoses-me-with-a-new-disorder-every-bloody-week-but-I-just-don’t-want-an-artifical-fix-you-know-I-want…. I pause for a much needed intake of breath & also because the man opposites eyeballs are bulging out the sockets.

Little timeout- that alien anecdote is a bona fide true story, as all this is, in case the autobiographical element of this blog hadn’t quite hit home yet…..

Some months before, on a Tuesday eve, the night before my weekly spec check which is when my vital stats get awkwardly measured whilst I’m near naked, by a panel of measuring tape wielding spreadsheet enthusiasts (Hello friends! Love you really!), I had had an almost biblical experience. I pressed play on an audiobook I had just downloaded from the brilliant Conversations with God series (obsessed, highly recommend) to settle down to fall asleep to when the words that immediately begin playing address the very question I had been perplexed about with my therapist earlier that day. Gosh, I outwardly gasp what are the chances of that?! I listen & smile as the author perfectly speaks to me, encouraging me to live out my full truth. Wow that is astounding, what a coincidence! But then shit gets almost too crazy when the chapter promptly ends & the speaker announces the start of Chapter Ten. Ten? I’d only just started the book, that can’t be right. I open my eyes & reach over to the glinting screen. Only seven minutes had passed since I’d gone to bed, I hadn’t fallen asleep. What?! Somehow my phone had magically played from the exact spot I needed to hear. From the middle of Chapter nine. I was blown away, freaked out & in awe, all at once so shouted out loud “bravo ol’ chum” to God or whoever else is in charge because (s)he had just played an absolute blinder there! Part of my brain was like no need to say that out loud, god can probably hear your thoughts after all, but fuck it, that was a darn powerful show – props to the main (wo)man BRA FUCKING vO!

Next day, after a sleepless night buzzing off my tits that I’ve got God on speed dial I arrive to work late, secretly hoping to get away with not being measured, which as you can imagine, for someone who is absolutely not fulfilling the ONE requirement of their job role, is the absolute rock bottom of their week. But no such luck, Elif, Stef & Lisa – my managers manager no less, take turns confirming the worst circumferences in the history of my 17 year career. Wincing visibly in just a g-string & a stained, no longer remotely nude bra, as the numbers get read aloud; each worse than the last, I try to hold it together. I was basically plus 5cm on every body part except my right thigh, which apparently was measuring 3cm less than the left, which, by the way, were completely symmetrical last week. Figure. Nobody batted an eyelid.

I go back behind the screen to dress in my faithful, floofy dressing gown to compose myself. But it takes no longer than a split nano, knowing they are probably all exchanging looks about me on the other side of the partition, to fall to pieces. I can’t take the shame, & with tears in my eyes I go off on one of my most manic rambles to date & very animatedly start shouting “I can’t do it any more, its over, I’m a victim of mid-life spread, it’s a foregone conclusion, Ant & Dec – I’m an obscenity get me out of here.” Ok you got me, I didn’t say that last one but it was sheer ravings of a loon, I had lost it. At this point I also find merit in mentioning my spiritual interlude the night before….

I weigh up swiftly how to break it to them, that I’ve been involved in some other worldly communication & I might just be Jesus, but plump, for some insane reason, to go with aliens instead; thinking that will be more palatable. I know, what?! God only knows why?! (haha)

So rather than saying “I’ve been on the receiving end of some powerful signs that tell me the universe wants me to better align with my values & goals & embrace new opportunities”, I say…

“But you know what it’s okay, I actually believe aliens want me to leave this job which is why they messed with your tape measures.”

The look on their faces was a picture, I can still see Stef now, open mouthed. But I wasn’t finished there, I continued…

“ I think I look fantastic”

Because in my mind I didn’t think I looked much different – my side profile looked vaguely flat-ish (okay, very ish), I could still squeeze into most garments & most importantly I could still see same amount of foot when I looked down in the shower <shrugs> which tells me everything I need to know. Cor what a professional, sign me up Storm.

It takes all 3 garment technologists (that is a job title by the way, not a cocktail, though would have preferred the latter) to calm me down & convince me that I should probably take the following week off work to chill the eff out. Which I do. I mean, I take the week off. C’mon me got zero chill you know that.

Right so back to the story in hand…. I’m still on the 8:17 to Liverpool Street. These train delays getting out of hand.

Ash (remember him?): “Oh really, you are thinking of quitting? What would you do instead?”

“I dunno, DJ lessons?” I offer up dejectedly. It had been about 5.5 days since my last self help endeavour had asked me to scrutinize my likes & passions for the squillionth time & yet again DJ, comedian & TV presenter; representing three of the most unlikely, difficult industries universally to enter stared me squarely in the face.

We arrive in Tottenham Hale where we both get up to shuffle down the densely packed aisle. I feel for the remaining passengers, with their shell shocked wide-eyed looks, after bearing witness to a thirty minute long confession & feel an urge to acknowledge what they had just been subjected to, for closures sake.

“Thanks for listening folks, hope you enjoyed my life story” I announce loudly “have a lovely day!”

“I enjoyed it” said the young woman behind who I’d swapped seats with earlier, “I just want to know what your DJ name is going to be?”

We exchange a laugh about how my DJ name could be “Djaded” because I’m just so damn depressed, & alight the train. Ashley & I head for the tube. There is little chance for further discussion down here. I manage to grab one of those fold down seats but Ash is pushed further down the carriage. I put my headphones on & resume my audiobook, “The Path Made Clear: Discovering Your Lifes Direction & Purpose” by Oprah Winfrey. Classic. Still trying to find THE answer without really doing any of the work, whilst also ignoring the fact that God had already told me several months earlier. I know, it’s infuriating isn’t it, FFS Jade are you thick? How many more god sent dispatches are required? How many more cars need to die!? Leave your damn job bitch! But hang on, let me just roll around in this sea of self help lit just a liiiiittle bit more please. I press play on Chapter 3.

“Your life is always speaking… guiding you…it works in whispers, pushing you towards your life’s purpose” Oprah said. Well she probably said something kinda like that, I really cant be arsed to look up the exact quote. This was only meant to be a short, little “I quit my job, congratulatory, yay go me!” blog post but here we are god (hey friend!) knows how many words later, I just want to go to bed please.

She (the cats mother? No Oprah, silly) then says “ignoring the whispers is an invitation to chaos.”

Hmmm I think about the events of the last few months, this morning even. No such thing as coincidence hey?! So seeing Ashley was by design, the car blowing up, & then the other car… also <ahem> blowing up <pulls guilty yet angelic face> forcing a three hour commute EACH way, the exploding measurements, the various injuries I’d accumulated that had prevented me from working out & slimming down, the gigantic boil on my bum – yeh that was a whisper too – modelling ain’t for you lady, how many times, yeh that was part of it too <ponder ponder> Maybe these were aaaall whispers.

Ash is long gone by this point & I switch to the central line & Oprah picks up the pace.

“Life is about growth & change & once you stop doing either you’ve received your first whisper.”

I listen back several times & what I interpret & have ringing in my ear, which was a bit of a paraphrase granted, but I must have heard it somewhere in the swill of literature I has consumed in the past year is “if you aren’t growing, you are dying.”

I repeat it again. “If you aren’t growing, you are dying.”

It feels like a gut punch. Each word shuddering through me like one of those cargo trains you have to step back from the edge for. The phrase keeps playing on loop relentlessly. “If you aren’t growing, you are dying.” DYING, you hear. DYING. FUCK. This was it. I’d been called. I ignored my last whisper 10 months ago to my own detriment. My gut instinct had been super strong & I had denied it & the result? My life deteriorated further still. Never again would I not trust myself. I feEL the fire rise within me & I know there is no turning back. This was it. If I didn’t do it right this minute I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror (kinda tricky when it’s your job) until I did. “If you aren’t growing you are dying.” It continued to whirr around my brain. “If you aren’t growing, you are dying.”

I was practically dead. There was no other option.

I enter the building & stride down the corridor pushing the swing door open towards the buying floor & see my friend Jayde enroute. I confide my news in her without stopping.

“Really?” she responds.

“Yes,” I confirm, “REALLY.”

There truly was no going back now, this was it, I’d just uttered the words out loud for the first time & I was as shocked as she was to hear them. “Bloody hell” I think to myself “I’m actually doing this.” I was quitting right here, right now.

I get the feeling she wants to continue the conversation, I mean obviously, she has questions like why & what the fuck you going to do instead, but I just can’t stop now, I have to keep going. I barely slow down & keep striding towards my manager Debbies desk. She’s busy with something on her screen & doesn’t notice me at first, so I stand rooted adjacent to her, dry mouth, awaiting my moment. Suddenly she looks up but no words leave my lips, instead I feel tears welling & my body tensing. She looks at me quizzically & I try to give her a knowing look that will indicate what is going on without me having to say it audibly for all to hear, having a breakdown in the process. Its only 9am, too early for a non-measurement related breakdown. No no, my standard timing for a work breakdown was mid morning. Anyway she’s gawping at me now with literally zero idea what is going on,

“Its happening” I muster. “Its time”.

Nothing. Her face is blank. Jesus Debbie c’mon, I make an exaggerated sad face.

“Its over.” Apparently I can only manage 3 syllables at a time.

Something seems to click & I see a faint flicker of a lightbulb above her head. Then suddenly fearing the worst & wanting to fill the void the word vomit begins & a stream of consciousness floods from my mouth. All sorts of verbosity arises – that “I’m sorry”, that “it has to happen” & “if it doesn’t I’m dead because, you know…. Oprah” <shrugs> & then of course, “I’ll give you a months notice” & “thank you for everything, it’s been the honour of my life but I just have no choice.” Christ, dream bigger Jade, DREAM BIGGER. She looks at me pitifully & I finally stop garbling. We hug it out & she appears surprisingly unmoved by, what I feel to be, an uber dramatic announcement. In hindsight she’s probably been expecting this for a long time & after accommodating me & my expanding, yet curiously flat, arse for so long she’s likely relieved, but in the moment I opt for shock. Yes I think, she’s in shock poor gal, that or she is thinking about the monstrous task of redesigning the fit timetable, but probably shock, yesss that must be it I think, as I walk back defiantly to my little cubbyhole, innumerable emotions welling deep within, all vying with one another to create a cohesive yet unattainable, singular mono-feeling.

I walk into the still of the fit room & stop by the full length mirror, looking myself right in the eye as I do & for a brief moment I do get that sense of oneness. Pride. I had done it. There was no going back now. I’d taken the leap.

Time to check the weather in Bali….