Well, it is the Year of Living Recklessly. But now there's probably no going back.
What happened was this: I told my landlady that I'm going to have to move out. Why am I going to have to move out? Because I'm off to live in a garret and be a writer.
No, really: an actual garret. Quite a nice one, as it happens, with a very nice velux window and a contraption that's somewhere between a ladder and a staircase that leads down into a second room (bigger than my current sitting room), where I will have a sofa and all my books, and where I will, without question, pace the floor and freak out on the hour, every hour, for the foreseeable future.
Because the garret is in my mother's house. At the age of 34, I'm giving up my independence (and, I can't help thinking, any reasonable chance of ever having sex again) and moving back into the family home. Now, my mother is considerably more spectacular than the average cat ("Seriously, Rachael," she said, "if you're so unhappy with where you are, for God's sake: come and live with me and I'll support you while you go after this thing. Make the brave decision. Do it now." Whose mother actively bitch-slaps their child into giving up work and going after a dream? Mine, that's whose), but the simple fact of the matter is, I haven't got the first clue how to go about doing this. I guess it's going to be a sharp learning curve...
But, you see, I looked at my life and it wasn't the life I wanted, and all of a sudden I could see the walls closing in and I realised that I either do this now - fully commit to it with the kind of grand, romantic gesture that always works out in movies - or I'm going to blink and suddenly there'll be a mortgage and babies (fat chance of that, living in my mum's house...) and Responsibilities with a capital R. And the years will have gone by so fast - faster than they're flying by right now - and life will have happened without me.
It feels like that's started already, and that's the scariest thing of all.