So, this is Adulthood: Getting a Grip.

scooterRiding into work on a scooter isn’t exactly how I pictured rolling into my adult life. To clarify, I’m not talking about a moped, nor an electric scooter you may have seen suits gliding on along the city streets. I’m referring to an unbranded, rusted, clattering, wake the neighbours up at the crack of dawn, smash your shins into, use your foot as a break, kind of bad boy.

As a child I had a very specific vision of life at eighteen. Who doesn’t? I thought that eighteen meant a car, and therefore, road trips, a 24-hour gym membership and ventures to 24-hour food chains. Everything had to be available to me 24 hours a day, because time would no longer control my life. There would be no more bed-times, home-times or play-times. No more timetables, timelines or term-times. But, apparently, it means driving lessons, insurance, buying a car and road tax; four things that were conveniently omitted from American chick flicks. Eighteen also thrust me into the world of overpriced bus travel.  And therefore, just as easily as Will Hunting, in Good Will Hunting, avoided an overpriced education at Harvard by opting for late fees at a public library, I ditched four wheels for two.

Now, the response my two-wheeled companion earned me, varied greatly.  Some customers from the café in which I work undoubtedly re-evaluate my age as I exit the workplace with a scooter. As soon as I set a hand on it I seem to become unprofessional in their eyes. They share glances amongst each other, questioning how a five-year-old just served them. ‘It must be her little sister’s’; their looks assure each other.  If I keep a straight face they’ll believe it, if I smile, they won’t. Or is it the other way round?

My friends ensure that I am aware that I have legs and that that there is no reason to ‘commit social suicide on a daily basis’. My colleagues joke about the absence of my hi-vis jacket, helmet and knee pads.

Others seem to think that I am confident because I don’t care what they think. Well, since when has caring what people think halved your journey time? And to be honest, I find joy in doing something that the style conscious wouldn’t dream of doing. So, as long as I am on wheels I will be happy, even if the wheels aren’t air pressured and there aren’t four of them.

Girl Writes Life

So, This is Adulthood: Entering the World of Brunch.

brunchFor me, breakfast has always been more of a rushed snack than something I’ve treated as the critically acclaimed ‘most important meal of the day’. Although I’ll never skip breakfast, I have disrespected breakfast in more ways than I can count.  Breakfast is half toasted bread whose spread cuts corners, cereal eaten dry, eaten on the way out, on the way there and occasionally, once I’ve reached my destination. Porridge has been ignored and granola, stereotyped. I’d say sorry to breakfast, but it has recently come to my attention that I should really be apologising to myself.

I only realised the error of my ways on starting work as a waitress. When learning the menu, I questioned why brunch was so dominant, to which my colleague Ron, certified Mr. Know It All, nonchalantly replied, ‘Mill Hill loves brunch’. I screwfaced.

‘What?  So, brunch is not a sacred meal saved for Christmas day and American families on road trips?’

‘Yeah. Didn’t you know that already?’

Clearly not. Well what else don’t I know about the town in which I live? I thought. Was Mill Hill adopted? I didn’t say this aloud, for I’m sure Ron would have an answer to my rhetorical question. ‘Well actually…’ he’d start, just as I’d grab a trayful of dirty plates and make a run for the sink.

In times of trauma, washing dishes can be extremely therapeutic. As the silky bubbles would slide over my hands and the pile of dirty plates would diminish I’d start to think about brunch. I’d think about how brunch seems to be a great excuse to move breakfast towards lunch and about how there’s rarely any lunch food involved in brunch. The only difference between breakfast and brunch is that it is acceptable to have an alcoholic drink with one of them. Not that we do that in Mill Hill!

Brunch is, I’ve learnt, never a chore; It eggs don’t need to be woken up early for. It’s almost always social; It’s syrup dipped French toast mingles with bananas and strawberries.  It doesn’t conform to schedules; often it’s available all day. Best of all, no one tells brunch that it must be healthy, unhealthy, sweet or savoury.

So, I will be dragging myself out of the house at the next opportunity for this morning meal. Perhaps, I’ll drag a friend along too, just to make a point. For I now understand what all the fuss is about and I feel that if Mill Hill has fallen in love with brunch, then we must learn to be in love with it too.