Now I don't want to get all Paolo Coelho on us, but every so often on a Tuesday evening it does cross my mind that normality is underrated. It's the curse of youth, of course, this feeling of unprecedentedness; this arrogance that through oneself the world must be rocked and renewed. Add self-definition as a writer, and you pile on the pressure to perpetuate self-destructively anarchic japes on the frayed fringes of society as an apology for not having a proper job involving sums or bins. It can all get very boring, truth be told.
Because there is something, in the end, to be said for padding round your flat in slouchy M&S cashmere kecks that look like two rags held together with a string, grazing on salty liquorice fish and cold gin; spattering the floorboards with an oily red trail of mingled wet-hair-drip and ankle-blood from where the razor slipped while listening to the crazy-arse jazz cum rock of Led Bib; squirting HP into the home-made chili because you don't have Worcester sauce; settling down to finish Jeremy Treglown's essay about the Spanish Civil War in the latest issue of Granta before capitulating to the siren call of the London Lite; and ending up ironing socks. Yes, socks. OK, I am special, a little bit.
The thing is, you realise that normality's far more original, far more unexpected, and above all, far braver than anything you can invent.