The Graduate: Dare you venture to the dark trouser side?

Note: This is a response post to the previous post 'I'm 22 and feel OLD'

More and more shirts may appear in my wardrobe, but I won’t let myself lose sight of the frosty woodland behind them.
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In response to my last blog post on graduate plight, I received two emails basically stating that there are plenty of jobs where one can go to work in jewel-encrusted shoulder pads. And so I have written in response the following words:

There are some jobs out there that permit excessive levels of hedonistic freedom, but for every convincing Peter Pan graduate who is paid a lot (or more likely to be the case – hardly anything) to discuss pencil skirts in Prada and the meaning of Posh, there are probably ten porn-obsessed paranoid graduate jobseekers living on the poverty line in a moist shroud of their own Pot Noodle breath. It’s a risk.

It’s the yellow brick road of famine that so many creative minds tread, where you can very suddenly find yourself nearing 30, undermined by a new generation of technology and aesthetics, and you’ve got nowhere.

Of course a lot of students go travelling, to broaden their Facebook photographs, to bury their heads in the sands of Byron Bay whilst pulling the Ray Bans over their eyes, but even this can rarely last for more than two summers, and when the travelling does end you find yourself two years behind on the career ladder, poor and confused culturally – “Why should I put a suit on when I could run a café in Laos?”. Plus there’s nothing more annoying than trying to be a cool beach bum when there are rich beautiful teenagers making a better looking job of it than you.

Although I’m not quite ready to admit it to myself - I probably do enjoy acting older than I did this time last year. I no longer want to paint myself up to look like a Smurf and visit every dank pub in Leeds. I cringe when gappies on Facebook update their status to something like “It’s f**king sweet man, gonna join Charlie and hit Thailand up for 3 months”.

Despite taking a punch at St.Paul's banker toy boys in my last post, I can also see the appeal of that life. That lovely tick-list life plan by which you can measure your progress: Car, flat, wedding, top of the range coffee machine, kids. But that life's definitely not for me. I can't envisage a house without at least one room that's smitten in blu-tacked pages ripped out of Coitus magazine.

I’m still in my London honeymoon period. I quite like black trousers, I quite like my small-talk with the receptionist José at my gym and I quite like sitting on the Thames enjoying a quiet glass of wine before going home to finish the Guardian.

All of these things oscillate and it’s about contrast, and both sides of the coin have their own attractions. But I am watching now, watching to make sure I don’t grow up too much. It’s important for me to let my hair down at the weekend and wear tiny shorts out, so that I don’t lose sight of the party monster that might have been. More and more shirts may appear in my wardrobe, but I won’t let myself lose sight of the frosty woodland behind them. Not yet at least. Let’s see where we are this time next year. I may well have that Nectar card, gulp.

1 comment:

  1. Oh Jack, I sense your blog becoming more and more autobiographical but I kinda like it. Soon you'll be receiving fan mail written in blood. Mx

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