Yesterday was a busy day. I got up, went to a writing workshop at a literature festival, caught the bus to London, went to an exhibition at Somerset House, for drinks in a fancy hotel, and then to see McBusted.

*pauses to lose followers*

I’m comfortable with what I like to do in my spare time, just as I’m comfortable with who I like to do it with. I did most of that stuff with a good friend, but I’d have been equally happy to do it by myself. And, if you ignore my terrible taste in music (the last gig I went to was Gary Barlow), a lot of what I do I do to indulge my inner teenager.

My inner teenager is fun. It’s her who burst out of the changing room in Jigsaw yesterday, caught sight of myself in the big mirror, and exclaimed: ‘Fuck, look at my TITS!’

Shocked silence from the shop assistant. And then: ‘Would you like to try a camisole with that, madam?’

I bought the camisole as well, in the end. I’ll wear the dress both with and without it because just as some circumstances demand it (work, weddings of less tit-friendly friends), on other occasions I’m more than happy to put it all out there.

But anyway. This is less a post about my tits, and more a post about how my attitudes to men and sex are also coloured by my teenage self.

I lost my virginity not because I wanted to keep up with my peers, but because I was curious about sex and what it felt like to do it for real. When bands playing live switch the word ‘kiss’ in a lyric for ‘fuck’ (yes, Lana del Rey – I’m looking at you), and all the teenagers in the audience scream like crazed loons, I get it. It’s not because she said a naughty word, it’s because they’re horny. The idea of fucking someone hard in the pouring rain? It makes me want to scream, too. Still.

Hence the boy. We haven’t done that, as it happens, although I often entertain the fantasy of it. I like rain. He’s good for my happy-go-lucky teenage side. He challenges me, pushes me beyond the comfort zone that I’m generally more than happy to live with in. Teenage me doesn’t worry about the ending, or the fact that he sleeps with other people. Teenage me thrills at his texts, and teenage me gets wet with the anticipation of fucking him.

Almost 30 year old me does the complete opposite. Almost 30 year old me worries that neither of us think the other is relationship material, let alone marriage material, and about the effect that he has on her mental health. Almost 30 year old me worries about her declining fertility and wonders if in five years time she’ll have regrets. Almost 30 year old me has even less control over her emotions than the teenage version.

I’ll let the teenager win out for now. And I’ll leave you with a bit of Lana.