The alarm bells of adulthood

This comes as I’m knee deep in yet another ITV drama drinking yet another cup of tea paying even more attention to the finer details of my Christmas wrapping.

From nowhere, I find myself getting real enjoyment from yet another predictable detective drama starring Sarah Parish (generic white actress that has featured in many a person’s Wednesday nights over the last 15 years).

And why have I had the time to watch so much of aforementioned television show?

Because this comes from the first full weekend before Christmas, that in 12 years, hasn’t been spent with me swinging out of a fairy lit pub in Soho, three bottles of house red down, signing Mariah Carey songs in the back a cab, pulling over for cigarettes and chicken nuggets.

This comes from the first full weekend before Christmas that I have actually opted to stay in, in order to be up nice and early to get ‘the most’ of my weekend and maybe squeeze in a run before lunch because I’m bored of getting to January and weighing 3 stone more than I did in October.

These weekends, my friends, are the alarm bells of adulthood.

The days when you realise that actually the Champney range in Boots 3 for 2 is pretty decent and if someone’s bought you one this Christmas, you’ll actually be pretty made up.

The times when you walk through Marks & Spencer and actually stop to look at the coats because a) £80 for a coat doesn’t feel abhorrent these days and b) they’re actually well decent.

The conversations you have with your girl mates about ‘investing’ a bit on a decent coat because you’ve realised wearing a leather bomber with everything is probably not the best thing for your kidneys.

The amount you realise you’ve saved by purchasing gifts from the 3 for 2 when you had a few weeks to give it some consideration, rather than panic shopping on the 23rd of December whilst slightly drunk.

These moments, my friends, are the alarm bells of adulthood.

The evenings when you actually relish the slight glimmers of a cold that preside in your upper nostrils that give you just enough of an excuse to cancel your evening plans for a night in a pair of fleece lined pyjamas and an early night.

The evenings when you literally do just stop ‘for one ‘ in the pub, and are home in enough time for The Apprentice final.

The nights when you actually go for dinner with your mates to stave off the affects of the three pints you’ve had, because you’ve all got deadlines or meetings the next day and you hit harsh realities of the fact that you’re no longer a receptionist nor can work on three hours kip.

Going for one suddenly means ‘one’ and no longer ‘one am’.

These evenings, my friends, are the alarm bells of adulthood.

The first time in for as long as you can remember that you don’t actually feel the need to get paid early in December, because you started your Christmas shopping early and also haven’t spent all of your last pennies going to every Christmas themed pop up from Peckham to Bethnal Green because it’s so worth the Instagram.

The first time, for as long as you can remember, that making it round to see Aunts & Uncles on a pre Christmas Sunday without feeling that your head has been replaced with a barrel of sambuca feels like the more preferred option.

The times that you do have sambuca and pay for it for 3 weeks after.

These times, my friends, are the alarm bells of adulthood.



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