columninches
Something odd has happened to our household of late. Once we were a merry band of outlaws; a youthful, devil-may-care law unto ourselves; a debauched, indolent crew upon the sea of college life. We drank, we sang, we filled the building with our riotous laughter and provocative dancing. We were young and beautiful and the world was our prairie oyster. But now...
Well, I first noticed something was up when Mark appeared to dinner in an ironed shirt and a tie. A small thing, you might imagine, hardly worth the commenting. But this is Mark, who spent all of last year sporting stained combats and a scruffy goatee; Mark, who thinks that baked beans are God's own accessory, and as acceptable down the front of his t-shirt as they are on a plate. His abrupt transformation to Our Man at Hugo Boss therefore, gave me something of a jolt. But it turned out to be only the first sign. Since then, others have joined him. Suddenly people are shaving and washing and polishing their shoes. The halls, which once rang with the merry voices of drunken undergraduates, now resound only with muttered discussions of UCAS points. My friends are getting up before noon and going to bed at 11:30 p.m. What is happening?
It is, of course, the fault of the Milkround. Middle age is breaking up that old gang of mine, and people are beginning to realise that a scarily big world lies on the other side of next June. Indeed, they're beginning to panic. People whom I never thought of as media-bunnies are heading off to presentations, wearing expressions previously only viewed on the faces of recent religious converts. The conversation at mealtimes revolves around CVs, transferable skills and IT training.
This worries me a little, I must confess. As I lie of an evening in the Orangerie, sipping my Blue Hawaiian and idly throwing croutons to the flamingoes in their heated paddling pool, the non-existence of my future career prospects begins to haunt me. Is there more to life than the mindless pursuit of pleasure? While I waste my youth in the most delicious lethargy, are all the good jobs being snapped up? Worst of all, in five years is Mark going to have a Mercedes and a condo in Biarritz, while I lie in a gutter somewhere, dreaming of my lost glory-days at Oxford?
I suppose it would be possible to join in the new trend towards adulthood. Despite having corporate ambitions that rank right up there with my ability to bend iron bars with my teeth, I expect I could clamber into some darling pinstriped number and make nice to the management consultants. A little adjustment of the CV ("A fortnight serving in the local chippie' being massaged into 'Summer work in the retail industry'); a little research into what management consultants actually do: I could easily make it as a corporate whore. And yet, and yet... - the horror of the nine-to-five prevents me. The horror of having a real job, of being dull, of waking up aged 30 and not recognising myself in the mirror. I don't want to join the club. I refuse to grow up and climb on the bandwagon. Dammit, I shall start my own bandwagon, a revolution of one. And if as a result of this I end up living at home with my parents, serving in the chippie forever - well, so be it. Because I'd rather fail at my own life than succeed at somebody else's.
4th Nov 1999