European weekend

We rolled into a Spanish town, filled with green crested hills and fluffy neighbourhoods

And I’m thinking about work and life and commitments

I’m pondering the flaky freelance mode de vie,

I’m wondering if it’ll stunt me socially

And make me boring and broke.

As the flesh coloured figures roll past the window panes

And the platforms dash in a blur of brushed aluminium

Thoughts ricochet off my synapses

And flood my mind with what ifs and how to’s

The world seems so scary

My path seems so bumpy

When I make good with my brain

That’s when it’ll all piece together.

18 vs 25

At 18 I lusted after boys with big hair

And curly tendrils everywhere

Like Chase from Zoey 101

Or the late but great Jim Morrison.

We got dolled up and went to clubs

Were hit on by married men in pubs

Who wanted nothing more than to grope our bums

And pray we didn’t tell our mums.

At 25 I don’t kiss in clubs

Or humour middle-aged men in pubs

I’d much rather sit and have a natter

With fresh-faced friends who actually matter.

At 25 I don’t look around the room

Desperately searching for my potential groom

Instead I shuffle those size 6 feet

And shun the stares for a monstrous beat.

At 25 I’m paying London prices

But the student union booze-fest still entices

50p shots with £2 doubles

Always made for some serious trouble.

At 18 I puked against the Sobar wall

Was told to leave and stop being a fool

Took my weary frame off to bed

Woke up to a head as heavy as lead.

At 25 I guzzle water like no tomorrow

In a bid to minimise next day’s sorrow

Memories of my 20th still make me shiver

As I downed neon shots and messed up my liver.