It’s 1999, I’m sat having a drink with my cousin and a moan about my disappointing love life. It’s a gorgeous summer’s evening, we’re in the garden watching the sunset, the wine is flowing as is our conversation. She’s always found me a bit of a melodramatic in honesty and asks, ‘what is it you’re actually looking for?’ I stop, look up to the pink sky for a second, take a sip of my wine and reply, ‘my soul mate.’ Whilst I think my answer is totally valid and completely justified, she’s roaring with laughter. ‘Soul mate’ she repeats, ‘that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard’ and continues laughing, bearing in mind it’s the kind of laughter that throws your head back and makes you slap the table.

Whilst a friend of mine updates me on her current relationship status, she acknowledges the expression on my face which is strongly saying ‘are you sure about this?’ To which she laughs and replies ‘someone’s gotta love him.’ As I laughed with her, I stopped and thought, ‘what an interesting comment.’ I had to think, is this true?

Whilst sat with friends over lunch one afternoon, someone politely asks ‘what do you do for work?’ I comfortably reply, ‘I fly for an airline,’ and happily return to my salad whilst my friend quickly jumps in on my behalf and shouts out ‘she’s a writer too!’ I kind of forgot about that and thought to myself, am I a writer, am I a flight attendant, or am I both?

I wonder how I’ve found it ok to sit at home in my pj’s, sipping a glass of pinot grigio whilst watching re-runs of Sex and the City on a Friday night? I take a moment to gather my thoughts and think to myself, it’s absolutely fine cause I’m #chilling, yep that’s it, I got this all figured out. I grab my phone, photograph my glass of wine and post it online #chilling, and suddenly feel a moment of clarity. Although it’s not really fine, because rather than listening to Carrie Bradshaw having a mental breakdown over men, all I can hear is the helicopter circling above my house searching for criminals. Since when did South London turn into South Central LA?

After 8-10 hours of walking up and down the aisle (the wrong isle can I just point out) with a constant fixed smile apon my face whilst I attend to call bell after call bell, a couple of high pitched screaming babies, a passenger on oxygen, a young girl projectile vomiting on the hour every hour, a drunken argument over seating positioning, and a stag group upset that we’ve run out of alcohol (it’s an all-inclusive holiday you’ve paid for my darlings, not an all-inclusive flight). I step off the plane in all glamourous form with my lipstick re-applied and my hair neatened, with no thoughts or memory of what just happened in those last hours.

Instagram Feed