A room of my own is part of the deal, a perk of the fellowship.
I picked up the key from the office on campus, where the warmly enthusiastic woman behind the desk reassured me that nobody should worry for one second about their age when taking up a new work challenge. Life, she posited, would continue to open doors as long as we kept knocking on them.
I nodded away in agreement, like one of those plastic dogs people used to stick inside the rear windows of their Cortinas, and told her, sincerely, that it was very nice to meet her.
I left and went about finding my abode. In truth, while being extremely interested in the process of maturation, I have never considered age a deterrent when it comes to beginning anew. In my limited (and profoundly privileged) experience, there are far tougher obstructions to fulfilling one’s aspirations than a birth date.
I'm pretty sure that, for many, financial and parental responsibilities occlude desire, sap energy and make pursuing fulfilling work much tougher
Times in my life when I’ve been skint and times when I’ve had to steady up and take care of small children have been much greater hindrances to ambition (worthy or not) than whatever decade happened to be decorating my bones.
I don’t suppose it holds true for all of us, but I’m pretty sure that, for many, financial and parental responsibilities occlude desire, sap energy and make the process of creating and pursuing fulfilling work much tougher.
When I was a young(ish) mother, there were things I longed for, such as travel, or the attention of my peers, or the freedom to drink wine in a dark bar at 5pm, instead of being at home grilling fish fingers and singing the Barney theme tune.
Indeed, there were times when that oppressively jolly purple dinosaur felt like some kind of reptilian Big Brother, making sure I diligently fulfilled my parental duties rather than slipping away into the hazy night.
(For those of you at a loss to know what I’m prattling on about, Barney is a giant all-talking, all-singing tyrannosaurus, a patrician puppet and star of a sickly-sweet American children’s TV programme which plagued our modestly sized screens in the ‘90s and noughties. A dino in a heliotrope sweat-suit, he peddled, among other things, solid family values and optimal oral hygiene, and would’ve had no time at all for artsy mothers having a fit of the vapours. “Oh, we’re brushing our teeth and having so much fun, / but we never let the water run, no!” he sang, in his wholesomely coercive way. “No, we never let the water run!”)
Before the financial collapse, when my children were small and I was slumped over the kitchen table trying to put one word in front of the other, I was aware on occasion of feeling quite alone.
I've been lucky. My children are now independent, my responsibilities have lessened, and I find myself inhabiting one of life's sweet spots
I could hear a cacophony of consumerism through the wall, an insouciant song sung by a monied tribe, a cohort my life sometimes brushed against. I remember feeling a pulse of envy in those boom years, watching women flick their silky hair over their shoulders while choosing between the pearl grey or the baby blue. It wasn’t their lifestyles I coveted (cashmere sweaters don’t, as far as I’m aware, make your life more interesting); it was the freedom their money might have bought them.
I’m sure if I’d listened hard enough, Barney, that saintly theropod with the hugely sinister laugh, would have had a pithy piece of advice about sticking quiet rage and broken artistic endeavours up one’s purple posterior and getting on with embracing parenthood. But if he did, I didn’t hear him.
I’ve been lucky. My children are now independent, my responsibilities have lessened, and I find myself inhabiting one of life’s sweet spots.
Anyway, having left the university office, key in hand, I nosed my way around campus, found my room, put my books away and went out to get a takeaway coffee. On my return, I encountered a mother and daughter, seemingly lost, attempting to locate the daughter’s student room.
“Ask that lady!” the mother instructed loudly as I approached.
The daughter reluctantly did as she was told, embarrassed by her harassed mother, who interrupted her anyway to better explain their plight.
“It’s her first day,” she said. “If it’s not this building, then what building is it?”
I apologised, telling her that it was my first day also and suggesting that they visit the kind, non-ageist woman in the office.
“Good luck,” the daughter said quietly, before turning to follow her mother’s determined back.
“You too,” I replied. “You too.”