Last summer I stumbled out of my cocoon of institutional education, where I've been pupating since I was 5 years old. Emerging like a beautiful butterfly, I swiftly discovered Being a Grown Up actually isn't all it's cracked up to be. Apparently, the cocktail parties and mini-breaks don't come as advertised. Who knew, eh?
After a few months spent scouring recruitment sites and reading rejection emails in my pyjamas, I decided enough's enough. I couldn't sit around festering in my mouldy North London flat for ever, and it didn't look like there were any job openings for a career in HBO boxset consumption. So I did what any sane person would do, and bought a plane ticket to Sydney instead.
I figured I could either stay in London, continuing to wallow in this strange, unfulfilling hinterland between uni and real life, or I could bunk off and go see the world instead. And really, if you can't just hop on a plane and hope for the best when you're twenty-two, unattached and largely free of adult responsibilities, when can you do it?
So, that's that. I'm clambering out of my unemployed Arts-Grad rut and running away - ten thousand miles away, in fact. This time next month, I should be on a beach in Sydney - assuming I make it through the torment of packing and the 348 hour flight. The countdown begins.
