Like a delayed reaction to January I’ve been trying to do all the right things. Become more positive and outgoing despite the incessant misery of a news cycle I no longer want to read. Politics is necessary, but it corrodes the soul and forges barriers that need not exist.
Domestically speaking I am winning and have been since I returned from Italy. I have worked it all out in a scribbled list. Bought myself a new kitchen tap, painted the bathroom ceiling, gone running every (second) day and stocked my fridge with avocados, berries and salad bags.
Going to write a story for BBC Radio 4 and overcome my fear of dialogue. I spend half my life wooing girls in a chat box FFS.
It can’t be that hard surely?
Catching up with friends and having drinks with yoga missionaries, former colleagues and ex-flatmates. Sharing gifts from Italy and avoiding conflict with Room A and Room B. This is proving a challenge I must admit. It’s a source of frustration that no matter where I work or how much I earn, London is unforgiving and dazzling with space age greed.
Like when I scuttle down Whitechapel High Street with a new haircut and cream smooth shoulders. Carrying orange plastic bags from Sainsbury’s and my father’s rucksack towards the overground. There are muggings in this area.
Whitechapel is brutal in the evening rain, jet black with poverty, beggars and collapsing canopies as the Gerkin beats on in the distance.
Dazzling with light amidst the emptiness of my travels. I feel edgy and sad where usually I am steadfastly indifferent and preoccupied with other things. I overshare too much and maintain unrealisable dreams.
Where is the signal amid this noise? I ask myself silently. My phone is new, but the message is the same. But that has never stopped me looking for gold stars on a wet weekend in February.