If you'd asked my 25-year-old self what I'd be like in ten years' time I probably would have had a fair stab at describing my actual life - house in the suburbs, couple of kids, some kind of job -but the devil is in the detail, and there are so many things that I'd hoped to be doing by now that I'm just not.
I used to be able to do simple things like get out of bed in a morning. Previously, the alarm would sound and I'd wake up, turn it off, get showered and leave the house. That's a skill that's deserted me; either I need to snooze six times to be able to face the day or my body hurts for no reason whatsoever.
My mother-in-law cured me of my spoilt behaviour, but it was a baptism of fire. I was lazy and incapable, and her son deserved more than the teenager who was dumb enough to fall pregnant on the first date, and who wanted grand things in life rather than knuckling down to being a mother, taking care of the family the proper way.
About fifteen minutes ago (so it feels like, but according to records it was September 1992) I landed at Lancaster University as a fresher. I can still see it as a film, smell the cleaning fluid corridors, taste the tears, terrified in my bare room, burying into my cuddly panda for comfort. Time to be an adult.