Recently someone on BlueSky asked ‘would 20 year old you be impressed or disappointed by who you are today?’. My immediate response was ‘both, in spades’. There’d be certain things about my life that she’d be wildly impressed by, others that might cause significant disappointment. But you don’t have to take my word for it, let’s ask her ourselves. Hop into my TARDIS and let’s go visit The Commercial Rooms – a sticky-carpeted Wetherspoons in Bristol city centre – in the year 2004. If I know this bitch (and I do), she’ll be somewhere in there drinking double vodka RedBulls, chain-smoking cigarettes and yearning for a boy we’ll call Adam.
INT. Grubby Wetherspoons. Day. Full of students dressed in ripped jeans & t-shirts or red trousers & gilets depending on their economic background. They drink £1 Reefs and jugs of cheap cocktail. No one is staring at their phone because phones worth staring at have not yet been invented.
In the corner, we see a girl – 20ish, messy/frizzy hair, with studs in her lower lip and nose. On the chair beside her is a sweet-ass leather jacket with purple lining that is in noticeably better condition than the rest of her clothes.
Older me: Hello [NAME]! I knew I’d find you here. I’m you from the future, how’s it going?
Younger me: Well, this is weird. But I guess for narrative ease I’ll pretend that it wouldn’t freak me out. How are you doing, me-from-the-future? Have you come to impart wisdom that will help shape the course of my life?
OM: No, sorry, that’s a completely different meme. Today I’m here to find out how you feel about mine. Whether you’re impressed or disappointed by the person I am today.
Younger Me narrows her eyes.
YM: How old are you?
OM: 42.
YM: Fuck… OK you actually look pretty great for 42.
OM: Thanks, it’s botox. Stop smoking now and you might not need it.
Younger Me sparks up a cigarette.
YM: Fuck you.
OM: Fair enough. That’s a really awesome jacket, by the way. I remember how much I loved it when I found it in a charity shop.
YM: I’m going to treasure it forever.
OM: No you won’t, at some point you’ll get so drunk you lose it in this exact pub.
YM: I won’t now you’ve told me, I’ll be vigilant. So what’s our life like? Do we end up marrying Adam?
OM: Haha I knew that would be your first question. No, we don’t marry him – he is definitely not The One.
YM: I don’t believe you.
OM: You don’t have to believe me – you’ll find out for yourself one day, and in the meantime you’ll have fun. Don’t sweat it.
YM: So… I guess… pull up a vodka RedBull and tell me about your life.
MONTAGE. Clips of various things that Older Me has done in the last 22 years. We see her dressed in yukata at firework festivals in Japan, running into sky-blue seas somewhere off the coast of Thailand, weeping on the floor of a grubby bedsit in her knickers. Moving furniture into a surprisingly lovely-looking Victorian flat and then moving it back out again years later. Staring at a screen looking pleased with the block of text that’s displayed on it. Kissing lots of different people, at various ages. Holding baby nephews and nieces and grinning like she’s won the pools. Sitting at a computer frantically typing, with piles of pages scattered on the floor. Falling, drunk, out of various London pubs. Dancing at gigs with scruffy punks. Cycling down the Danube with a manic look in her eyes. Typing at a laptop, this time with a filthy grin…
YM: Wait wait wait WHAT? You’re a SEX WRITER?!
OM: Yeah.
YM: Do people actually read it?
OM: Yeah. Quite a few. I actually can’t believe my luck. I assume this is the thing you’re most likely to be impressed by?
YM: Fuck yeah. That’s actually way better than I could have hoped for, it’s cheered me right up.
Long pause.
YM (small voice): Does Adam read it?
OM: Hahaha I doubt it. I promise you that when you get to my age you won’t care. There are other men you’ll be thinking about way more, wondering if they ever dip in and read.
YM: Do you have a husband? Does he read it?
OM: No, no husband. No boyfriend either right now.
Very long pause.
YM: Why?
OM: Why what?
YM: Why don’t you have a boyfriend?
MONTAGE. More kissing, loads of fucks. Threesomes, kink clubs, intense sex parties for two (and sometimes four or five). Interspersed with more footage of me crying in my pants. Older Me sitting on the floor of the living room while a man that Younger Me does not recognise screams in my face. More kissing, different people, more sex, more crying. Another man, face twisted in anger. A slightly younger woman grinding against someone on a sofa at a party while I look on, humiliated. More kink clubs, more men with kind eyes. More crying.
Cut abruptly back to the pub, where Younger Me is holding up a hand as if to say ‘stop’.
YM: That’s enough. I understand what you’re telling me. Let’s pretend it wouldn’t be insane and frankly cruel to deliver this information to a much younger and more hopeful version of yourself. Crushing her anticipation of a bright future like a succubus who believes that offloading your misery onto her will magically make you happy.
Short pause.
YM: Look. Sorry, but you can’t just bow out because some men were mean to you. You can’t sit here and tell me that I get to the age of 42 – looking surprisingly decent, by the way – and suddenly stop having sex. Men will always be mean to you – why do you think I’m sat in Wetherspoons on my own at midday on a Sunday?
OM: Adam?
YM: Of COURSE Adam. I’m waiting for him to turn up, but I’m not sure he will. The other day one of his friends casually told me that he’d snogged her after clubbing last week Friday – even though he and I have been shagging for a year.
OM: Oof. I remember that, I’m so sorry.
YM: Thanks. Heartbreaking, obviously. But I’m not going to roll over and die.
OM (gently): You’re just going to pursue him ever more desperately until he decides you might be The One?
YM: You said you weren’t going to give me advice.
OM: True, I’ll shut my mouth. There are other men out there though…
YM: I want this one. Fuck you. Anyway, you’re clearly not in a position to give anyone advice. You’re a 42-year-old sex blogger living in one of the biggest cities in the world, you’ve got a flat of your own you could fuck in all the time if you want to, and you can’t find one single man you want to have sex with?
OM: No.
YM (narrows eyes): How hard have you tried?
Long silence.
YM: That’s what I fucking thought. Try harder. Go get laid. If you can’t get married or fall in love right now, the least you can do is collect some fun stories.
OM: I mean… I totally see what you’re saying and I understand why you in particular might give me this advice but… I’m sad right now and just feeling the weight of all this accrued disappointment.
Younger Me rolls her eyes.
YM: So you’re just going to give up?
OM: For now, maybe.
YM: Fuck you. Imagine if I’d said the same!? Imagine if I decided right now that the inevitable disappointment isn’t worth the joy that comes with shagging! You wouldn’t have had half the fun you’ve had if I adopted this defeatist attitude.
OM: You make a good point.
YM: Of course I do, I’m fucking clever. Why aren’t you? What happened to you?
Older Me looks baffled and a bit dazed, as Younger Me downs her drink and stubs out a cigarette before immediately reaching for another.
YM: What do you think your 62-year-old self will say if you give up now and deprive her of whatever’s coming next? In fact, fuck her, think about me! How do you think I’ll feel if you swan out of here leaving me staring down the barrel of a future that doesn’t contain the thing I love the most? Stop being scared, take your licks. “Fall down seven times, stand up eight“, remember?
Pause. A beat.
YM: Stay in the game, bitch.
Older Me nods. Starts to speak but is immediately cut off.
YM: Gimme a sec.
Younger Me’s gaze has been drawn towards the door of the pub, which swings open to reveal ADAM.
She leaps up from her seat, immediately ditching her time-travelling future self in favour of chasing the boy. She runs towards him, wallet out, ready to buy another round of double vodka RedBulls.
Older Me stands up and is about to walk away.
But there’s a moment’s pause, a flash of indecision, before she sets her mouth in a determined line.
Taking advantage of her younger self’s boy-based distraction, she reaches to the back of the spare chair… and swipes that gorgeous purple-lined leather jacket.