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.
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.
You know what a really great dating app would do? It would scan your Google search history for all your weird musings and secret questions then match you with someone who’s been equally curious about the same things. Or, if not possible, at least match you with someone who is at essentially the same level of weirdness as you.
Because being an Australian in London is apparently much like being in high school again, let’s talk about boys, shall we?
I heard the most wonderful story this week. Full credit goes to to its author, Simon Rich, who tells it far better than I’m about to.
‘Oh my god!’ I say, ever so wittily.
‘Oh my god,’ she returns, also demonstrating an enviable mastery of the English language.
Bibbity bobbity beau?