As a child, I couldn’t wait to be an adult. I’d spend hours daydreaming about the future, my exciting life and what I’d do with all that autonomy, such as own exotic pets, paint my walls bright pink and stay up all night.
Now that I’m in my mid-30s, it’s fair to say that adulthood has somewhat lost its lustre. Nothing is wrong, exactly – I’ve even achieved some of my dreams, with a bright pink bathroom and two weird cats – but there’s still a sense of going through the motions, and my days being dully predictable: gym, work, cook, clean, collapse on to the sofa.