The Time of our Lives
Posted: Friday, October 01, 2010
by Sara O'Rourke
So I'm sitting at a dining table - it's 21:56 and I have half a cup of cappuccino on a pink polka dot coaster to my right and a half-eaten nectarine to my left - I'm waiting for my clothes in the tumble dryer; its low drone is quickly sending me to sleep so instead I choose to write. Here I am.
I've been back in London for a fortnight or so now, and what one hell of a couple of weeks it's been. This city never sleeps. My throat is tight, my nostrils blackened and my once quite nice singing voice has come back to its familiar rasp - but how I love this busy, noisy bubble of addiction and pollution. They say living in London is like boasting a 20 a-day habit... well, I'm definitely hooked on this rush.
I have now finished my nectarine and its stone sits by my mug as it grows colder and less appealing. I doubt I will finish it. Those who know me know that it's my signature drink purely for the frothy, foamy goodness on top. It looks almost like freshly-fallen snow in the morning, before your dog runs through it and little paw-holes spot it all over. I realise I am fantasising, so back to the point. I was recently at a 21st birthday party, to which many of my old classmates were also guests - it was a nice opportunity to see them all again, exchange stories about life the past two years or so since we left school and generally judge to see who had changed...realising that, for the most part, the room looked like a photograph from 2008, only the people had beers in their hands. On second thought, it was exactly the same. After a troubling comment from a rather blunt girl that I looked distinctively 'older' (and it was said not in a good way, not, I mean, to suggest I looked grown up, in my 20s, lady-like, but wrinkled and tired!) I drowned my sorrows and made it my mission to find out what people had been doing over the summer. I left that party very disappointed with a lot of what I'd heard. Replies consisting of, 'Oh, nothing much, couldn't find a job, just stayed at home,' really worried me. These summers are supposed to be to die for, to travel the world and get lost in the jungle, climb some ridiculously tall mountain, try your hand at a swanky bank internship near City Hall, teach kids in China how to introduce themselves in English! What will you think, in ten years' time, when you look back at your experiences? You will look down at the beer belly you accumulated from too many nights at the pub with your mates, find yourself unable to get more than 2 weeks' holiday in one block at work, and my goodness, you'll feel gutted.
I can hear the tumble dryer winding down, so perhaps this is a sign that I should wrap up my rantings and retire to bed. It has, after all, and like all the rest, been a long, long day. I feel ridiculously lucky to have found myself friends, and to have a family who are likeminded and passionate about life. These are the people I long for; the mad ones, the ones who won't stop laughing until they cry, who smoke when they're stressed and say exactly what they think. These are the people who are going to have a good life, a great life, in fact. Out to dinner, the other night, I was sat by a long table at which a score of old ladies arrived, cackling and gossiping at the height of their voices. You could tell by the way they laughed that they had known each other a long time, that they had lived, that they had stories to tell. They did not act their age - sure, they were graying - but mentally, they were sharp as ever. 'That's me in 40 years,' I thought, with a smile.
This Article has been viewed 846 times. (Not updated in real-time.)
Top-level comments on this article: (3 total)Great article, Sara. I could feel, smell and hear London! I think your passion for life is gorgeous.
Hi Sara.
This is beautifully written. It was a real pleasure to read on so many levels. I'm a country girl at heart, but you've made London sound very interesting.
Thank you for sharing!
Hugs,
Dianne
Enjoyed reading your article Sara
We want your comments! If you can read this, you don't have javascript enabled, so you can't use this comment system. Please enable javascript.