would appear that his lucky Fred Perry is starting to have its effect though: Megan is sitting up close to him, nibbling her nails. She is an example to us all, maintaining her relationship with Mike without any incident for three years, despite living miles apart. Maybe this is what Sanj is thinking, ruing the fact and identifying tonight as a last chance. Well, if his shirt has its say in the matter …
“At the end of the day, I can’t think of anything better than a bevy of pints with you lot at the end of the day,” says Jack, trying to reboost the momentum. He’s recognized the undesirable lull.
Thing is, we’re hitting the quarter-life crisis. I know, it’s tragic. You may think I’m being OTT (
hello?
), but why should the only generic crisis be of the midlife variety? For a start, the midlife crisis is a touch presumptive, is it not? I mean, what makes you think you’re going to live that long
all over again
? Of course the quarter-life crisis could prove not to be a quarter-life crisis at all: it could be the middle, the two-thirds, the five-eighths, and so on, depending on how far your individual time-travel goes … You just can’t tell. These things can’t be calculated till after the fact. Who knows how long you’ve got? Whatever it is we’re going through, it’s a bloody crisis. No, hang on, I’ve got the magnitude all wrong here: it’s a
fucking
crisis. Life has been sped up super-broadband style, so we can’t afford to wait till we’re forty to have a crisis. And that’s another thing about us: we want everything
now
. There’s no time to wait, no time to explain. I’ve got to stop letting it get to me so much though … I’m too old for this shit.
But what have we got to complain about? What on earth could constitute crises for us, so young and brimming withpotential? Well, I can’t account for everyone, but maybe Sanj is burned from the intensity of Law Finals and having doubts about his future at a Magic Circle firm where the pressures will only rise exponentially, a slave to corporate boredom; maybe Abi is heartaching over the lack of love in her life, all her promiscuity and pulling initiatives no substitute for genuine bonds; perhaps Megan is realizing that if she’s still with Mike now, after all this, she’s gonna have to start getting used to the idea of being with him forever … (
Should I get married? Should I be good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and Faustus hood?
); Scott is almost certainly despairing over his future: the expensive education—illustrious prep schools, Eton, Oxford—and now not a clue; as for Jack, Ella, and me, that’s going to take much longer to convey. That’s what tonight is for.
A load of first-years from our college enter the pub. We all look up, slightly put out. They’re so fresh, virtually ejaculating with hope and ambition.
“To be young, eh?” I say.
“To youth!” exclaims Jack, raising his pint aloft.
“Hear, hear,” we cry.
“Bitches,” mutters Abi. It’s tough for the older lady in student society.
The last three years have retarded us all. Apparently you’re meant to “find yourself” at uni, but all we managed to do was get even more lost. It’s like a game of hide-and-seek where the seeker can’t be bothered to finish the job … can’t be arsed to look in the drawers or under the bed. I came of age and age came of me. It was all rather becoming. At least I think it was. Maybe it passed me by. We’re twenty-one, which is to say we are slightly more specialized eighteen-year-olds. Twenty-one used to be theage when you got the keys to the home, but we can’t open anything except our gullets.
We chug.
“You should be paying for tonight,
solicitor
Sanjay,” jokes Abi with a sarky sound effect on her voice. “You’re the one with the hench salary coming your way—lucky shit.” Sanjay looks consummately depressed, burdened by the toxic City connotations of his future: perceived
“At the end of the day, I can’t think of anything better than a bevy of pints with you lot at the end of the day,” says Jack, trying to reboost the momentum. He’s recognized the undesirable lull.
Thing is, we’re hitting the quarter-life crisis. I know, it’s tragic. You may think I’m being OTT (
hello?
), but why should the only generic crisis be of the midlife variety? For a start, the midlife crisis is a touch presumptive, is it not? I mean, what makes you think you’re going to live that long
all over again
? Of course the quarter-life crisis could prove not to be a quarter-life crisis at all: it could be the middle, the two-thirds, the five-eighths, and so on, depending on how far your individual time-travel goes … You just can’t tell. These things can’t be calculated till after the fact. Who knows how long you’ve got? Whatever it is we’re going through, it’s a bloody crisis. No, hang on, I’ve got the magnitude all wrong here: it’s a
fucking
crisis. Life has been sped up super-broadband style, so we can’t afford to wait till we’re forty to have a crisis. And that’s another thing about us: we want everything
now
. There’s no time to wait, no time to explain. I’ve got to stop letting it get to me so much though … I’m too old for this shit.
But what have we got to complain about? What on earth could constitute crises for us, so young and brimming withpotential? Well, I can’t account for everyone, but maybe Sanj is burned from the intensity of Law Finals and having doubts about his future at a Magic Circle firm where the pressures will only rise exponentially, a slave to corporate boredom; maybe Abi is heartaching over the lack of love in her life, all her promiscuity and pulling initiatives no substitute for genuine bonds; perhaps Megan is realizing that if she’s still with Mike now, after all this, she’s gonna have to start getting used to the idea of being with him forever … (
Should I get married? Should I be good? Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and Faustus hood?
); Scott is almost certainly despairing over his future: the expensive education—illustrious prep schools, Eton, Oxford—and now not a clue; as for Jack, Ella, and me, that’s going to take much longer to convey. That’s what tonight is for.
A load of first-years from our college enter the pub. We all look up, slightly put out. They’re so fresh, virtually ejaculating with hope and ambition.
“To be young, eh?” I say.
“To youth!” exclaims Jack, raising his pint aloft.
“Hear, hear,” we cry.
“Bitches,” mutters Abi. It’s tough for the older lady in student society.
The last three years have retarded us all. Apparently you’re meant to “find yourself” at uni, but all we managed to do was get even more lost. It’s like a game of hide-and-seek where the seeker can’t be bothered to finish the job … can’t be arsed to look in the drawers or under the bed. I came of age and age came of me. It was all rather becoming. At least I think it was. Maybe it passed me by. We’re twenty-one, which is to say we are slightly more specialized eighteen-year-olds. Twenty-one used to be theage when you got the keys to the home, but we can’t open anything except our gullets.
We chug.
“You should be paying for tonight,
solicitor
Sanjay,” jokes Abi with a sarky sound effect on her voice. “You’re the one with the hench salary coming your way—lucky shit.” Sanjay looks consummately depressed, burdened by the toxic City connotations of his future: perceived
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