I have more revivals than a bad nineties pop band (Steps, I'm looking at you) but I need to get back to business on this writing malarky.
I'd really like to say that my absence is through a mighty combination of finding a cure for cancer, excelling in every piece of work thrown at me, learning to bake and being a top class woman but we all know that not to be true. I've spent the first two months of being twenty like a hermit, through no fault of my own.
It's going to be a massive shock, but I barely touch wine. My half a bottle glass is like some distant family heirloom, somewhat mythical. My hand misses it dearly. When I say 'barely touch', it's a comparison to the affliction we once shared- an intimate thrice weekly visit, often ending in headache and regret. It's now fortnightly, if at all.
I'm not complaining. I'm on cloud nine, I'm extremely happy. I just have so much spare time, but not enough time. Does that make sense? I literally struggle to work out where the week has gone. Is this the first sign of adulthood? Losing fucking time? Are we rationed it? I've just looked at the clock and I've been on my own for three hours. In that time, I've eaten a bar of chocolate, drank a cider and perfected my Spotify playlist.
God knows.
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