Like every other girl in the history of time, when I was eight, I wanted a horse. Because, of course, I did.
When I was growing up, the 367 bus used to go past my driveway several times a day.
There were no dog poo bins, but there was a plastic bag in every third tree. Orange streetlights used to buzz outside my bedroom window. It was suburbia, with a dash of grit. I loved it.
I really couldn’t tell you if there were any stable yards in Croydon, but I doubt it. Still, I wanted a horse. They’re so beautiful. Witness.
Anyway, I’d been horse riding for a handful of years before I realised, actually, I’d rather like something with horse power.
I was about eleven when I decided I wanted a motorbike. It hasn’t happened yet, on account of my godmother would cry at the idea of me on a motorcycle, wobbling around the thin, hairpin bends on unlit country lanes, the roads spattered with diesel rainbows and me, risking my neck and associated parts.
However, I have this soft, little idea that a time will come when I live in the City. Yes, that one. And in my head, I can see myself on an Enfield Bullet, sitting in City traffic, looking in the windows of art galleries, and thinking about room service before a big script meeting in the morning.
They say if you can imagine it, it can happen. It’s quite a specific image, which is probably why it’s taking a while.
See, and I tell myself I can wait – as long as I don’t have to wait too long. I’m probably the least patient person I know. I would think through a list of my friends who might be equally afflicted, but that would just take time and… well, you know.