After more than two evenings on the sofa, I usually experience a kind of manic claustrophobia. That had to change fast
I’ve been out every night since 2010. Well, not every night, but most of them. I moved to London for university when I was 18 and, for most of the next 10 years, I made the most of every opportunity, event, party, meal, drink and man I came across. While the other people on my course were going to freshers’ fairs and poetry competitions, I was vomiting arancini balls into the toilets at the Barbican.
I would blame my “chronic Fomo” or Sagittarian nature – but whatever the reason, I put all my eggs in the “going out” basket. I thought it was a sturdy, well-woven basket. There’s no way “going out” would ever not be a thing, right?
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