I turned 25 last month, an age I previously would have referred to as being adult. At eighteen I assumed that by twenty-five I’d be set in my ways, have my own place, maybe even be married, silly little eighteen year old me.

The state of play as I see it id that I’m twenty five, living at home, in love but with no intentions on getting married any time soon and just beginning to lay those first tentative steps on the way towards my chosen vocation. There are a number of reasons that I’m behind on the assumed goals, some are/were outside of my control but I was blocking myself for quite some time.

A lot of the problem was that I was obsessed with the 27 Club, a group of artists and musicians who died at that age, I’m sure you’re aware of that stigma. That obsession turned into me believing I would expire at twenty seven as well, and that I needed to get everything done before then. It turns out that there is nothing that inhibits me quite like a mortal deadline. Once I got over that, and started thinking about the outrageous range of jumpers with elbow patches I could enjoy well into old age it lifted that blockade and made writing a lot simpler, because I was doing it for me, not to be idolised and thought of as a tortured genius, but in the hope that my love of writing could provide for me. It has been deeply refreshing.

This means that I am only a third of the way through my life, everything I have done so far I could do again twice. That’s not something to balk at, it’s something to embrace, that’s a long time to get things done, and something that I can’t help but cherish.

I was recently talking to one of my friends about the pair of us ‘getting old’ and both agreeing that it only felt like it had happened recently, the truth is I know I will never grow up, especially with friends like him around. I hope I am still laughing at felt tipped custard creams at fifty, sixty, seventy….

I was on a bus this morning (because I’m a sucker for sharing my travel time with twisted broke fuckers) and spotted an old school friend who I haven’t seen in a while. We had a bit of a catch up on the way to our mutual destination and he asked what I had been up to.
‘I finished my novel’ I said. It still fills me with pride to be able to say that, despite the fact I know the hard part comes next.

I told my friend that I had been in touch with a girl from our school year who had her first novel published last year to ask if she had any advice, she did; she was very helpful. It’s annoying because I am jealous of her, as we should be because she’s done it, she’s got to the goal that I can’t get out of my head, she tried and she got there and a lot of the time that is all it takes, a point proven by our continuing conversation on the bus this morning.

My friend said to me ‘did you know [boy we were at school with] just bought an Aston Martin?’
‘Oh wow’, I replied, ‘that’s awesome. I’d love to be in that position one day’.
‘Yeah’ my friend replied, ‘it makes you wonder what you’ve done in your life to not have deserved an Aston Martin’.
I couldn’t help but dwell on that statement. Firstly there is nothing to say that our fortunate school friend deserves that, he may be excellent within his field (which I’m sure is the case) but he could be killing people for money, or worse still, be working in banking. What matters is that he tried, and this may be a point that some of you disagree with me on because it’s quite a new concept to myself. I wonder if my friend (the first friend mentioned, the one on the bus) has tried to be in a position where he could own an Aston Martin, if he has given it his all, because as humans that’s all we can do really, just give it a shot. I know that’s what I am doing, there’s no guarantee that anyone beyond my close friends will ever read my novel but I’m going to try and make that happen and maintain that nobody deserves anything.

That was the best piece of advice I got for my novel, and this weekend I managed to finish it and now I’m bummed out that I won’t be able to feed that back to the person who provided me with such a sound turn of phrase.

I don’t know if you read my blog often but you may have noticed that I don’t write at weekends, the reason for this is that for the last nine months I have spent my weekends writing my first novel. I’ve always had massive issues with finishing anything off, I’ll make all these grand plans and schemes but when it comes down to it I can never reach a conclusion, and it was only ever down to me. There was nobody stopping me but myself. I’ve cleared that aside in the last year and started work on a story about one of the highlights of my 25 years, University. It dawned on me that all I’ve ever wanted to do was write, it’s been in me since I learnt to read and got wrapped up in Lewis, Tolkein and Blyton as a child, I’m not comparing myself in any way, just outlining the kinds of brilliance that initially coaxed me into what I now call my chosen vocation. I’ve had dalliances with other bits and pieces but the core of it has always been a love of writing and completing my first novel feels like the longest first step ever, I want to continue with this for as long as I can. It’s the reason I don’t want to go ice skating – for fear of losing my fingers under some sucker’s blades. I just wanted to share my joy at having finally finished it already.

Nothing can make you miss your glory days like being trapped inside on a beautiful afternoon like this. I’m a writer so I’m not particularly adept to the outside world but how I would love to be a part of it today.

It reminds me of those hot Spring and Summer months at University when we literally had nothing to do, or anything that we did have to do didn’t really matter which in itself felt like a reason to celebrate. This was a time when it didn’t matter how bad I was at sports I still wanted to get out and play. Those were truly the summers that went on forever, in a different and better way to those of my childhood because I was too reserved as a child, I spent too long in my own company. By the age of eighteen I had sort of worked out how to be around people and it was a real delight.

What I miss most are the barbecues on the lawn and the home brewed alcohol and running around campus in just a pair of rolled up skinny jeans and smoking too much and blaring music too loud from the flats so we could hear it on the lawn below.

I didn’t even realise how good it was at the time, or how much I would miss it later. The wonder of hindsight.

Through no fault of my own I’ve been to a number of funerals lately, and with all the grieving aside (because that’s something far too private to blog about even for me) it has got me thinking about when I’m eventually lowered.

When one of my dear friends passed away late last year it was noted that it was difficult to do anything per his wishes because he didn’t have a will. It’s not something I thought about before but having seen the run of things recently there are a number of elements I would like to control. Until I get the chance to draw up a will proper I may as well outline them here.
– Don’t play Robbie Williams’ Angels.
– Don’t let anyone comment on the history of shit jobs I’ve had, if you have to read out a biography of sorts then make it about my conquests and achievements.
– Make sure the front row is family, and the second row is beautiful women weeping.
– Please play Procol Harum’s Whiter Shade Of Pale & The Smiths’ Asleep plus anything fitting to how I died.
– Make sure I am buried with items I’ll need in the after life. Ideally I’d like £160, a bottle of Jack Daniels, Catcher In The Rye, a set of guitar strings, a Parker pen.

I should really actually get this off to a solicitor.

There was a time when I cursed Monday mornings, and in doing so decided to wrap Sunday evening up in that because it was part of my downfall. There’s a feeling I used to get at about five pm on a Sunday evening that I can only relate to hand in deadlines at University, that grip of fear as it dawns on you that work starts again tomorrow at nine.

I would like to try and offer you some advice, but I don’t know exactly how it will come out or if it will serve any purpose, I haven’t planned a golden rule to give, I’m just going to tell you about what changes I’ve made to embrace Sundays.

I’ve near enough stopped drinking, that was a big one. I was spending every Saturday night in the Brush (nightclub in Rayleigh (if you can call it a nightclub)) and then feeling wholly sorry for myself for the majority of Sunday as a result. I’m sure most of my friends think I’ve abandoned them or gone straight edge or something because it turns out the only time I saw the majority of them was when we were getting drunk. The problem I now have with that particular Saturday night tradition is that it leaves me unable to get my head together to write anything on a Sunday which as a writer isn’t the best thing. I procrastinate at the best of times and a hangover was the perfect excuse to not even start getting anything done. Having cut out drinking (and unfortunately it appears; socialising) I can get between three and five thousand words done in a day, alongside having time to cook, clean, visit relatives, play guitar, watch films and whatever the hell else it is I have been taking up on a Sunday.

Yesterday I got up at seven and went for a run, maybe that did it. I find that I feel much better in myself after running in the mornings, it just sets you up for the day. Once I get in after a run I can’t just lie back and do nothing, my blood is racing for the day, which drives my brothers insane (because they are both all about the hangover).

I guess those are my tips then, cut your drinking, eat well and get some exercise. Is that really anything new?

This is quite fitting because I’m actually hungry (which for this time in the morning is highly unusual). It’s a topic that comes up quite a lot at home, at work and out and about because I have a very strange relationship with food.

I’ve always been a skinny little thing, never peaking the eleven stone mark which for someone over six foot is classified as being underweight I believe. From what I can remember the problems started at University where as a result of my lifestyle and lack of funds I completely lost any love I may have previously had for food. To this day I feel sick and guilty if I over indulge which some would probably classify as an eating disorder. At the end of the day it is my opinion that as a rule we eat far too much, and we also waste too much but that’s another post for another time. When I was at Uni I managed to get to the point where I was eating one or two meals a day and I was entirely comfortable with that. I wasn’t punishing myself, I wasn’t in pain as a result of it, my stomach had shrunk and I just didn’t have the capacity for it at all.

Food is just not classified as a priority to me; a very wise women once said that I ‘eat to live, whereas the rest of the family live to eat’ and that has stuck with me, and is something I turn to as a defence. If something is very well prepared then I can still appreciate it (my girlfriend’s cooking for example is spot on) but for the most part I just see food as being coal for the burner in my belly, I just need enough to keep me going and even that often gets forgotten when I get lost in a task. If I’m writing or recording or hung up on something it isn’t exactly the case that I forgo food as much as it doesn’t even come into my thoughts until I’m finished or the offer is made to me. I guess that’s why it would be dangerous for me to live alone again, there are only so many notches to feed into my belt.

Evaluate from that whatever you want.

I’ve been working in the office environment for three years now, and for the most part I don’t actually mind too much, I know it’s not what I want to be doing but it’s the means to an end and blah blah blah. What I have serious issues with is the way people turn on each other, there are constant playground jibes being whispered back and forth and what people seem to have forgotten is that none of it actually matters, at the end of the day we are all replaceable cogs in a massive clockwork machine that doesn’t actually serve any kind of purpose.

People get far too hung up on the little tasks they have to do – press a button, get a banana, pull a lever, get a banana – and when you think about it there really is minimal impact available at our hands. The decisions we make in work don’t matter at all, they aren’t really our decisions at all.

I suppose it all boils down to the fact that it shouldn’t be important enough for us to get all bent out of shape over, but people insist on being that way and I don’t think I will ever understand why.