Directions

"So," my friend asked me yesterday: "what's next for The Write Girl?"
I frowned at her. "You can call me Holly, you know," I pointed out. It's not as if I'm a Pussycat Doll. You can kind of understand why nobody remembers their names: if I had a toned tummy like them, I wouldn't expect anyone to remember mine either.
"Yeah, but Holly's not nearly as mocking," my friend observed. "So what now? What's the next bizarre step in your increasingly farcical life?" (This is how my friend talks to me, by the way. It's why I spend time with her. There's nothing like a permanently raised eyebrow to make you feel like a maverick, even when you're in your pyjamas.)
"Rocking backwards and forwards in sheer fear, I think," I said after a little consideration. "Lots and lots of procrastination. Shouting at people for no reason at all, because I'm generally wound up and don't really have anywhere to put it. Leaving acerbic comments on people's Facebook pages. And dropping beans down the front of my dressing gown."
"Oh goody," she remarked dryly. "We all love Directionless Holly. What happened to your plans?"
"I got scared. Reality came and bit me."
She raised her eyebrow a little bit higher, so I pouted.
"Somebody told me I was being stupid," I explained, "and if I left the country now I'd come back and I'd have no career, no friends, no job, no money, and massive mousey roots because the Japanese don't know how to deal with my hair colour."
"Who told you that?"
"Some guy in a pub."
"Right. Sounds like crap to me. Doesn't sound like the kind of crap you'd normally listen to, either. You might not have noticed this, but you have no career, your friends will probably be sitting on the same sofas watching next year's Big Brother when you get back, you don't have a job, you don't have any money, and - frankly - your hair looks like shit and you've got full access to a number of qualified hairdressers. I don't see what difference 10,000 miles is going to make, apart from a good one."
I peered sulkily over her shoulder at the mirror on the wall of the pub, assessed the situation, pouted, and realised she was right. Which she always is: even bothering with my reflection was a total waste of time, to be honest.

So - at 8am this morning - I got out of bed, ate a bit of toast and Marmite, brushed my teeth, and then booked a plane ticket from Heathrow to Narita, Japan, for the 11th of August. And then, without putting the phone down, I promptly booked an appointment with a colourist.

Just like that, all my fear has gone and everything is back in perspective. I am no longer the grumpy, unbearable, Directionless Holly my friends and family anticipate with dread. I have been shot back out of the dark like an arrow from a bow: into the capable hands of the nice people at Cathay Pacific Airlines, who will give me a blanket and headphones and possibly a tiny little toothbrush that folds in half. I have a plan. I have a goal. And I've got nothing left to do but enjoy my month left in England, enjoy the people I love who I'm leaving behind, and enjoy being able to ask for directions to my hotel without breaking into a game of charades.

This Write Girl finally knows where she's going again. And it's via Hong Kong.