Just before Christmas I made a decision not to go travelling. It was a really hard decision to make, I considered it one of those difficult life decisions. Similar to the one you make when you’re forced by your teachers or parents into what career you wish to pursue when you’re a gangly teenage boy who’s only pursuit at the time is get a kiss of a hot girl. I had saved some my money, thought of a route I would take, in fact I had even found myself in STA Travel in Euston one rainy Thursday afternoon. I was all set to book my round the world ticket when the booking assistant changed my decision. I think her name was Claire. She looked a well travelled young lady by the different types of bangles on her wrist, a bandanna hemming in her sprouting dreadlocks and an African looking skirt wrapped around her waist. Everything was going well, until she asked me my specific itinerary I was a bit flummoxed that I couldn’t spit anything out. I knew that I wanted to go to South America, then to Australasia and ending up in East Asia. However, she asked me for how long I wanted to stay in these specific places and what countries I wanted to visit. I remember spurting out that I wanted to spend 2 weeks in Argentina, then to Chile for 3 weeks. She looked at me quizzically, and said, “to be fair, these sound quite short times”. I said, “I know”. She looked at me again and told me that she felt I wasn’t ready to go travelling. I asked her why she thought that. She replied that, "you’d know this sort of stuff, you’d know where you wanted to stay and how long for. What cities you actually wanted to visit within the countries and probably even know the weather forecast for that period too." I was a bit startled by the fact it was coming from a stranger. I have a tendency, well a conscious choice, in soaking in the opinions of strangers. The main reason being that they don’t know me so their observations are lucid and not smudged by any previous knowledge of me. I walked out of there thinking, “shit, do I want to go travelling?” On the train home, I realised that I didn’t want to go. The reason being, I didn’t want to go on my own. Sitting on the chewing gum infested Silverlink carriage, I knew my decision not to go travelling was a rather significant one. A decision that may gnaw at me slowly over the years, until I shout out, “yeah, now I’m fucking ready to travel, now back the fuck off, conscious” but by then I'd be 55.
I’m standing at the urinal in the Plough tending to my biological obligations. However, I’m staring hard at the rusting aluminium panel. In the dining area, I’m at a work lunch with two producers, one of them a senior one, a designer, and a software engineer. The conversation started about work but soon becomes more impersonal. I’m cracking a joke to the designer about Spurs not being able to keep a lead, when my ear catches the sound of “when I travelled Russia…” I turn waspishly to see who said this. It’s one of the producers. I turn back to the designer but my ear is attentively listening to the other conversation about travelling. A pain swells up inside my stomach, it’s kind of dull and uncontrollable. I’m jealous. “Yeah, it was the same when I was travelling through Cuba”. The pain increases and starts to spread up to my throat to the point I can’t really hold a stimulating conversation anymore. I let the designer do the talking and I just nod in the right places. Before the pain reaches to the tip of my tongue, my body tells me I need the toilet.
I’m blankly looking at the urinal thinking why am I so bothered about people that have been travelling. I made my decision, I deliberated about it, imagined in my head me out there in New Zealand or Bolivia. The imaginary picture wasn’t clear and rather faded. I conclude that I’m an uncultured idiot and realise that I’ve been staring at the aluminium panel far too long that the gentleman on the left of me might think I’m trying to pick him up. So I zip up, wash my hands, realising one thing is for sure, I need a holiday.
I’m standing at the urinal in the Plough tending to my biological obligations. However, I’m staring hard at the rusting aluminium panel. In the dining area, I’m at a work lunch with two producers, one of them a senior one, a designer, and a software engineer. The conversation started about work but soon becomes more impersonal. I’m cracking a joke to the designer about Spurs not being able to keep a lead, when my ear catches the sound of “when I travelled Russia…” I turn waspishly to see who said this. It’s one of the producers. I turn back to the designer but my ear is attentively listening to the other conversation about travelling. A pain swells up inside my stomach, it’s kind of dull and uncontrollable. I’m jealous. “Yeah, it was the same when I was travelling through Cuba”. The pain increases and starts to spread up to my throat to the point I can’t really hold a stimulating conversation anymore. I let the designer do the talking and I just nod in the right places. Before the pain reaches to the tip of my tongue, my body tells me I need the toilet.
I’m blankly looking at the urinal thinking why am I so bothered about people that have been travelling. I made my decision, I deliberated about it, imagined in my head me out there in New Zealand or Bolivia. The imaginary picture wasn’t clear and rather faded. I conclude that I’m an uncultured idiot and realise that I’ve been staring at the aluminium panel far too long that the gentleman on the left of me might think I’m trying to pick him up. So I zip up, wash my hands, realising one thing is for sure, I need a holiday.
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