It seems like forever ago that I was sat on a cramped 25 hour flight in the storm of coming home. Still jet-lagged and bleary eyed, slapped with a rejection from the police because of residency regulations, I dragged myself to Reading festival in a last minute decision to meet up with my two pals from university that I hadn’t seen in years. It felt good to have a few days out to just access my life and stay in the limbo of not being an adult just quite yet.
Whilst I’ve discovered that maybe festivals are not for me, I did have a great time seeing some bands I loved when I was younger, namely You Me at Six and Breaking Benjamin. I camped for 4 whole nights which for a self-proclaimed princess is no mean feat. I realised a lot this weekend – namely that beer for breakfast is (sometimes) a great idea.
Today I’ve arrived back at home to Kent for the second time in one week and I think the end of travelling blues will hit me like a ton of bricks at any minute. Everyone screams about how great it is to travel and do all of these amazing things, but I think we also need to remember the lows which will follow. It’s impossible to not get a little down when your life goes from sunbathing under palm trees to sitting in front of a screen/ringing up agencies looking for the right career for you.
I feel like I had a picture in my head of how my life would pan out when I got home, and so far it is absolutely nowhere near what I had in mind. I’m not joining the police (and cannot apply for 3 years because I’m allegedly not a UK resident), he will never want me, I’m heaps chubbier now than I was in January, and all my friends are buying houses and getting engaged whilst I’m putting mini doughnuts on my fingers and cuddling my cats.
Til next time.