I quit my job today. Strolled into the office as normal, smart shirt and smart-ish boots, gave the usual greetings to the usual people, before walking up to my manager's desk and handing her my notice.
I spent the entire time trying to appear blasé and casual about the whole thing, as though it was no big deal - just another Wednesday. No-one bought it of course; I've been planning this for months.
Around about November 2016, I was feeling like shit. I'd just finished my probationary period as a customer services agent in a call centre - my job was to be shouted at by people who weren't happy with having to pay for their car insurance. It was a weird time - I'm 23, technically a grown-up, but like most people I feel like I'm faking it. I got the job through a friend, who handed my CV in to the company a year beforehand, where doubtless it slipped to the bottom of a filing cabinet until all the good people left for bigger and better things. Honestly, it's been a good job, despite the shouting. The pay is okay, I work with some absolutely lovely people, and they'll find the flimsiest excuses to have a buffet. But it scared me. It didn't feel like me. I worried if I stayed there, then one day I'd wake up forty years old with no idea what happened.
So I decided to leave. I've spent my entire life reading about amazing, far-off places, about travellers in antique lands, about heroes and villains and some rather fantastic cowards. And I always felt a sense of envy, of longing - I wanted an adventure. Where was my wardrobe leading to a magical land? How come my acceptance letter to wizarding school never arrived? Why didn't a wizard come knocking on my door and whisk me off to fight a dragon?
Well, bugger that for a lark; if I'm not going to get dragged into an adventure, I'm damn well going to make my own. I'm leaving for Australia next month, taking a working holiday. And after that, who knows?