“What?” I said, as I turned round in the kitchen to see my brother giggling at me from across the room. “Are you laughing at me?”
He shook his head, almost a bit disbelievingly. “Aren’t you a mental?” he said. “Don’t you just… love life?”
I was stood in my pink silk pyjamas and floor-length Japanese kimono, halfway through belting along with whatever Sunday Morning Love Songs was churning out as I threw eggs and flour and milk into the brown mixing bowl we got at the charity shop for £2. Calum was sat at the table slicing fruit for stewing; my brother’s fella was on the terrace, blowing smoke to the London skyline.
“Well, yeah,” I laughed back at him, looking around the flat. “’Course I love life. My best friend is here in my London apartment, and last night we went out dressed up as the judges off of X-Factor, and we’re having pancakes, and being a little homemade family, and this is my life, and I didn’t know it could all be this lovely, and so it’s a bit brilliant.”
I did dramatic flinging of arms.
“I do love it!”
I put the lid on the blender, where vanilla ice-cream, peanut butter and Disarrono waited to be mixed up into milkshake heaven (yeah- you’re welcome for that one), and dropped the first of the batter into the pan as everyone busied around the table.
“Plus we’re about to have the best brunch in the history of brunches, and I love brunch because I’m a fat bitch, and fat bitches are never miserable- only skinny people are miserable, because they’re hungry,” I reasoned. “One thing I will never be is starving. Or miserable.” The three gay men at the table issued an A-MEN. They know me so well. That makes me happy too.
I’m reflecting on all this 36 hours later, wherein I’ve cemented my love for life because I’ve just been offered a job. Accepted a job. And I’m struck with just how thankful I must be because DAMN. Somebody, somewhere, is looking after me. To think I was so scared, so worried, so afraid of the struggle I knew I’d face undertaking Life From Scratch, and yet I can honestly say that since I landed in London FIVE AND A HALF WEEKS AGO that I’ve not once doubted the absolute perfect-fitting-ness of this whole operation.
I’m meant to be here, now, doing all this.
(I even just had to look in my diary to see how long I’d been in London doing Life From Scratch because I thought my imagination had gotten it wrong. It can’t possibly have been only five and a bit weeks, I thought. NOPE. My Moleskine agrees: I’ve done less than forty sleeps in my London Bed. LESS. THAN. FORTY.)
(If this were Noah’s Ark, we’d still be sailing.)
(Also, I just looked up from where I am typing this to say to Calum, in further appreciation, LOOK AT YOU! ON MY CORNER LEATHER SOFA READING EAT, PRAY, LOVE IN MY LONDON APARTMENT WITH THE VIEW! And he laughed at me- because that is, apparently, the theme of my life, being laughed at by the people who I love- and said, DON’T YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO SAY EVERYTHING OUT LOUD to which I responded WELL LIKE, D’UH. HOW ELSE WILL THE UNIVERSE KNOW THAT I’M GRATEFUL?)
(And THEN Calum was all, but if you were in New York City Library and said out loud “I’m in New York City Library!” you’d get shushed. I said, BUT THEN THAT’S EVEN COOLER! THEN YOU COULD SAY OUT LOUD “I JUST GOT SHUSHED IN NEW YORK CITY LIBRARY!” and so we both giggled together and agreed to never stop saying all the things out loud because life is just funner that way.)
The week before I moved here I came down for the day to interview for an internship I didn’t think I was qualified for. The week I first lived here they offered me the internship. Yesterday my boss told me he was so impressed with me that there was no need to complete the internship- he was to put me on the staff, if I wanted to continue with the company.
WHO INTERVIEWS FOR ONE JOB, THE WEEK THEY MOVE TO LONDON, AND THEN GETS THE FREAKING JOB WITHOUT EVEN FINISHING THE TRIAL PERIOD THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE DOING IN THE FIRST PLACE?
This incredibly grateful chick, that’s who.
And Internet? It is a twelve minute walk from my front door to the office front door, which means my working day is 8.45 a.m. to 5.15 p.m. and all the hours between? MINE. ALL MINE. Mine and my bigger dream’s. Mine and Penguin’s dream.
Aaaaaaaand, not only did I get offered the job in spite of this rude blog and website and book proposal, but I was offered it BECAUSE OF THESE THINGS. Essentially, I think I got a job because I impressed the right people with my vagina.
And so, looking around at my newborn life, still wrapped in a birthing blanket and covered in the messy innards of my dreams being borne into the real world, I can’t help but think to myself that the universe is like, totally on my side.
Which is a relief.