The future freaks me out

Mostly, what these otherwise unconnected stories — unconnected save in that they all happened to me — have in common is me being awkward or uncomfortable. Sometimes both. Enjoy.

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I turned 30 last month. I finally admitted, under duress and in the face of unyeilding mathematics and biology, that I’m not a kid anymore.

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Get get get get over it

I am fuming. It’s half past ten on a steamy Thursday night and I’m miles from home on a terrifyingly overcrowded dark platform. The next train isn’t due for ages. The tube strike has broken London’s transport system and everyone is miserable. At least I’m not alone in that.

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Drinking French, being English

I was primped to within an inch of my life: blow wave sleek, nails shellacked in inoffensive beige, Hobbs heels on, hair hidden under an equally beige hat, dressed modestly, lipstick lacquering my lips. The only hiccup was my name badge: Miss Alexander E. Alexander. I was about to go rub modestly-covered shoulders with London’s best coiffed and I was going to do so as an Alexander.

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Have fun go mad

Somewhere between Aussies in uniform, sweaty boys in Bintang beer singlets, plentiful cheap beers, we had stepped through a black hole to an Australia that never quite existed. It was 4pm. We could stay here all night.

There was only one little problem with this genius plan.

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