Oh I do like to be beside the seaside.

Never before have I had such an overwhelming urge to get away. I'm not one for insisting on uprooting and disappearing down the garden path at the blink of an eye, but I feel I have to get away. I am aware that last statement could not sound more melodramatic. My intentions are not for this to come across incredibly depressing and "oh, my life is so terrible." I just want to go for a bit. Even a week, that'll do.

My destination is Brighton. In reality, the weather there is probably just as bad as it is here, and ideally, as a seaside resort, I should really be going in the height of summer. But I want to go. I am supposed to be next to the seaside. I think everyone has a place they are meant to be, you know? Mines is the seaside; the British seaside. I find it a difficult thing to express to people; I often recoil in embarrassment at that thought of sounding so gushing and lovey. Even at this very moment I'm cringing at the sight of my words on this page.

Nevertheless, East Kilbride will always be home. I know that if I go away anywhere, I'll always end up back here. It's a love-hate relationship. I take real enjoyment from moaning about how monochrome the place is; how the transport system is terrible; how it is slowly being overrun by urban foxes. Because it's home.

I just want a break from home, though. Everyone deserves a break. I need one.

And so, I'll pack my things up in a little spotted red napkin, tied around a stick and plod down the street. With no money...no sense of direction...no permission from my parents...

...Maybe another time.

Efter x