This week has been sponsored by laryngitis, a head cold, blocked nose and sinus infection.
At the end of a week of illness, I was pretty pissed. The plan for my Saturday had been perfect: 2 gym classes with Karly, lunch, and then off to Tom and Jim’s for an afternoon of gaming.
Unfortunately, the illness I’d been suffering from all week had refused to abate. I went to the tube station, took one look at the over-crowded train, and turned around with my nose running to walk home. I couldn’t face getting on.
Tom and Jim weren’t that keen to have me over either, understandably I guess, carrying an infection. Jim has job interviews all next week.
The thing is, although I was ill, I had a rather relaxing week. I spent only one day actually in the office, all the others were working from home. Except Friday when I was too ill to move.
And yet now, I find myself wishing I was well enough to have just had my perfect Saturday plan, the one I was so looking forward to. Being home so much has been a wonderful time to rest, relax and reflect. Like being on holiday but still working. I’ve enjoyed it. Each day I knew I had work to do, but I could just move at my own pace. Bliss.
But today just feels like overkill.
It brings back bad memories. Memories of when I was fighting for a job in London, surviving at home on barely a trickle of freelance work. When I was too obsessed with not spending money to go out. I got myself in bad head spaces, spending too much time with myself. I need the stimulus which comes with being out and about with people. Conversation and new experiences, that’s where I find creative power and stimulus.
I love time alone. I need it. But too much is too much. The world narrows, I find. Unanswered messages suddenly becomes looming monsters, rearing up to make us feel awful. Hours fly by where we’ve achieved absoulutely nothing and yet we don’t know where they’ve gone. It’s almost like being in a twilight zone. A twilight zone where your own thoughts are your enemy and they distort the world, inside and out.
I know they say your life and happiness shouldn’t depend on others, only on yourself, but really there’s only so far ‘yourself’ can take you. Surely we’re designed, as social creatures, to make an active social life for ourselves.
But that’s the thing, when I thought about it as I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My social life is dwindling. Somehow, I realised that all my chips are landing on just a small handful of people. People I can’t rely on to keep me amused and simulated from the social point of view any more. Somewhat ironic for someone who works in social media.
I need to find ways to meet new people. My mind casts back to when I came to London, and the entire city was a whirlpool of opportunity. Yes, it was scary. But within days, I was at fashion shows, museums, galleries and parties at the Kensington Rooftop Gardens. To be fair, a lot of that was networking so I could try and piece togather something resembling a full tme job. A lot of it was tiresome (have you ever waited in line for the Rooptop Gardens? It’s baltic). But it was fun. It was stimulating. It inspired me. I inspired me.
But as the friends I have made have settled down, just like my life, it’s like some of the spice has gone out of it. I need to move to an exciting new flat. I need to find new friends who want to explore the city, who inspire and motivate me. I need to look ahead to building that high0flying career I always wanted. I need to find the romance which is going to last a lifetime. Thinking about those things together sends a tingle down my spine. I much-needed zing of hope.
Because real life doesn’t happen in our rooms. No matter how wonderful a fantasy may be, it’s still just a fantasy. But out there? That’s not where fantasy happens. That’s where life happens. And the London life is something I think I need to dive back into.