Not A Mid-life Crisis
I feel so restless. If my passport wasn't currently at the Home Office trying to convince them I'm a nice person, I may have called in dead to work this morning and grabbed the first train to London. But, since I suspect that France will want my passport before they let me in the country (to steal pastry recipies, of course), and that walking to Australia would be difficult from there, I may have to stay put.
I want to go someplace. I want to do something. I don't know what, though, I just want it to be now.
Me: I'm having a mid-life crisis! I don't want to have a mid-life crisis at 30! I don't want to die at 60!
Him: You're not having a mid-life crisis.
Me: If I am, does that mean I have to start dating women half my age? Because, ew... 15.
Him: No, because you aren't having a mid-life crisis.
Me: What about women two-thirds my age? That wouldn't be so bad... And I could get a fast sports car or something!
Him: You can't drive.
Me: Which would make it all-the-more tragic, don't you think?
Him: ... I'll be over here.
I don't know, I just want to go, now. I don't want to wait, and be mature, and do all the right things. I want to get on the first and fastest plane out of here. There's nothing wrong with the UK, and heaven knows I love Edinburgh, but right now... I just feel so restless.
If I had my passport right now, I'd be filling in my paperwork to Aus. As things stand, all I can do is write sad little blog posts.
20 days is a long time without travelling, at least for me.