Get a clue,” my dad tells me over the phone when I’ve questioned his decision to spend a life counting other people’s money. Right. I could sort of see the slide down into passive-aggressive recriminations, yet was totally unable to prevent myself from throwing myself down that mental chute. And now, I ask myself. Right. Where is the clue and what does it look like?

confused-teenage-boyWe were being childish. To be even more childish I can truculently say “he started it” by raising the flogged horse that I thought was dead by now that it would be good to consider alternatives, in case my current path doesn’t work out.

I can already hear the dismissive ‘when you grow up and realise that in the real world you don’t make a living writing and writing about books’. If I’m honest with myself, sometimes it feels like we’re two bored actors reading a coffee-stained script where both of us are thinking “Who the hell wrote this crap?”

Do you ever have that feeling: that you’re following a script; that you’re not really invested in that script you’re following; and that there is no alternatives to following that script so you read from it even though everything says that you should change something fast? That you’re powerless to change the progression of the script?

So maybe the “get a clue” is true. However, the problem is of course that I have no idea about what the clue looks like, and where you can find it. Or even how you can find it. I feel a bit drifting lately, true, because while I would like to pretend that I’m all over the less than stellar attempt to get into the A-leagues, the A-league’s rejection of yours truly has made me a bit rudderless.

I have always had a goal. I’m weird that way. Even when I was a kid. I was going to be not fat; I was going to be a singer; I was going to go to England; and I was going to get into Oxbridge. I’m not fat any longer, I’m in England, and if I say so myself I’m a pretty good singer. I didn’t get into Cambridge, though. So, now there’s no goal. No big shining beacon to aim for.

In a way my life feels like reading the same kind of script as with dad. I add little projects that are supposed to motivate me. I make a song here and there, write a novel each summer. But it’s starting to feel like that script I’m reading with dad, and I come back to the question I opened with.

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