Prelude

Let me start by telling you that I am a terrible storyteller. I have many friends that will back this up. I have a tendency to start at the beginning, skip quickly to the end before filling in all the details in-between in order for the story to make sense. In fact a date recently pointed this out. Apparently I give the false impression of being quite eloquent in messages, only to spoil the illusion in real life. So is the beauty of editing. “Maybe you should try taking a deep breathe and thinking through what you’re about to say”. He didn’t last very long.

So here is the start of my story, and the end. The middle bits are a story for another day.

Twenty three years, seven months and twenty one days ago a young man of short stature stood on a pavement somewhere between his home in Mosman and Paddington Hospital in Sydney. He stood with his feet firmly rooted to the spot, his round face turning a shade of beetroot as he continued to scream at the bus driver who had moments ago torn down the side of his BMW at the traffic lights.

During this exchange the passengers of the bus began to shuffle off to get a better view of the commotion, or possibly to seek alternative forms of transport, who knows. Perhaps some of the more observant of the crowd even noticed a young woman in the midst of labour calmly climbing out of the BMW, reaching back in to collect her suitcase and signalling for a taxi.

Twenty three years, seven month and twenty one days later I sit cross legged on a chair at my desk at my family home in London, sipping tea and quietly contemplating everything that happened in between these moments. It is part of a pre-life crisis. “Another one?” my ex-boyfriend exclaimed wearily over drinks recently. He had the pleasure of talking me off the window ledge during the run up to my graduation. I thought a moment. “No, I’m pretty sure it is the same one, I think I just took a sabbatical”. I just haven’t decided who I am yet.

So here it is. A piece of online space made up by thousands of zeros and ones that placed together make up the story of all the irrelevant moments that fill in the story in between. Oh and cake. It is part of how I cope.