It was my birthday on Thursday and I turned 26. It's an age where, when I was a teenager, I was sure I'd know what the hell I was doing with my life. You know, I'd be working a top notch job, be saving towards a house, be travelling regularly, and all the "proper adult stuff" that you know, we all should be doing by your mid to late 20's. I'd be ticking off dreams left, right and centre, all whilst keeping fit and healthy and having an amazing social life, of course. But the reality is I'm sat here in my pyjamas in my tiny one bed flat with not too much to show for the last 26 years. The reality is I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
I've always been a little bit rubbish at reading. I tend to go through phases where I throw myself into a book but then can go for months without picking it up again. I know, I know, for a lot of you that probably sounds painful, but when you've got everything else in life weighing you down, reading, for me anyway, tends to be a pretty low priority on the list unfortunately.