A Yorkshireman displaced

This week the Guardian published a letter from Stephen Fry addressed to his sixteen year old self. Since I have suffered writers block recently I thought it’s be a good way to get back in the groove so to speak. Permit me some indulgence

Hey,

I know how much like Holden Caulfield you feel right now. Truth be told, you are actually suffering from clinical depression and if you go and see you doctor now you might just do better on your A-Levels. You might save yourself a lot of trouble later on too. Depression is not hip, it’s not achingly cool and frankly JD Salinger did not have all the answers.

Also it’s good that you read books but try not to be so elitist about it. Just because someone prefers pubs to libraries does not mean they are shallow.

Oh and get contact lenses and get a haircut and play the guitar more often. By the way, in ten years you will be an amatuer DJ. Incidently you aren’t ugly, it’s just that girls think you’re weird. Stop letting mum buy all your clothes okay?

By the time you are twenty eight, you have a fantastic record collection and more friends than you could ever wish for. Music still matters to you.

Jobswise….. well there’s still time. You will never have a worse job than Hazelwoods. On the downside… you work at a low level job for a faceless corporation. Every single day of your adult existence you will think about fleeing. By 28 you will be trying to go into business for yourself. Somewhere in the back of your mind all those daydreams you’ve been having are still fermenting away. You can do it.

Chin up, cheer up

D

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So I moved…

Even your professional nomad, your frustrated beatnik must settle eventually. I had been living in the twilight world of some friends’ bedroom and before that the box room of a liverpool terrace. Some months ago I finally secured tenancy on a flat (if you want to stalk me I live somewhere in the vicinity of Sefton Park in Liverpool)

I’m fermenting plans, I’m 28, If I did more exercise I’d cut a fine figure.

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