I would give the world to be able to earn a living writing. Not hard nosed journalism mind you. I turn to custard when I encounter the Jeremy Paxman types. No that won't do at all.
But I just know I would warm up beatifully to comfortable fiction and familiar Sunday features. Anything that usually goes well with furry loafers, a pot of tea and the odd Oreo. Say a reviewer of children books or happy ending novels or cook books. Heck I would even go the length and even do travel commentary. No, on second thoughts, being assigned to travel the less beaten track may not be so hot. I am a globetrekker limited to civilizations with heating and modern plumbing.
I will finally admit that I am indeed a Martha Steward devotee and I secretly prefer learning 10 ways of refurbishing my wardrobe than 20 ways to have sex in it. (Refering to Cosmopolitan here, they have ran out of how many ways one can do it standing up and upside down, they have broken new grounds by naughty sugestions on where to do it and how to do what where. It is indeed an excercise of mental dexterity of the writer to challenge the physical aptitude of the reader. Well those who dare try anyway)
But I digress.
Celebrating the 28th anniversary of my first birthday, I have indeed suprised myself with the way I have turned out. When I was 17 I thought then that by this time I would be wielding power and great fortune would be my forte. And that I would behave irresponsibly, decadent in the trappings of youth and glory.
To my disapointment I have turned out to be quite a law abiding citizen whose claim to a wild time is scaring my mum by buying a fridge, washing machine and TV at one go. Yeah, Happening Me. The wild child in me has mellowed to point that I am as ferocious as a marshmallow.
But you know, its ok. I kinda like it.