I wasn’t going to write any new stuff this week, because I’m in the depths of my dissertation, but when I get shouty I get shouty, and someone has to hear me.
It saddens me that I need to write this. But given some revelations over the last few days, I wanted to make my stance clear.
Some girls grew up living for Saturday so they could head for town and spend hours at the MAC counter fawning over their latest eyeshadow. Me, I lived for Saturday mornings in Easons, perched in front of the YA book shelves, breathing it in.
Neither of us were doing it wrong. We were simply indulging in our passions.
I can’t adult very well but at all. I can’t drive (not legally, anyway), I don’t know what a tracker mortgage is (does anyone?) and I can’t safely cook a full roast chicken. But the biggest indicator that I’m just a really tall six-year-old is that I have absolutely zero concept of money.