….. in fact, it isn’t at all! (Well apart from the usual grown-up angst about where you can recuperate the money you spent on a new bag, to pay the leccy bill. But you don’t have to be a PANK to worry about that shiz.) Por ejemplo, ¡mira! I think it’s always nice to get a little jaunt booking under your belt, in the early part of the year, to give ourselves something to look forward to in the gloomy days that lurk after the emotional high of the December holidays. Don’t you agree?
So, a big fat hurrah to me. Who’s just booked to go to Amsterdam, for only the second time in my life, in the latter part of February? Annie P, that’s who! <solo Mexican wave> A flying weekend visit this time, meeting a friend from London there and enjoying a little taste of what the Dutch capital has to offer. ‘Coffee shop’ anyone? <insert winky face here> Or something. Personally, I wouldn’t know…… errr hhermm.
I’m also waiting for a call to confirm that I can travel to Copenhagen in March to stay with an ex who owes me one, to infinity! That boy’s got a lifetime of payback to cough up, bless him. (a much better friend than boyfriend). And inevitably there will be a sojourn to Paris at some point over the summer months, and I hope a couple more trip-ettes here and there. I’m still holding out for the romantic one to Venice too, but I suspect that this will be a looooong way off, if in fact I don’t actually end up going with my cousin, with whom I have an agreement. If neither of us has been there before we turn fifty, we’re going to go together. Not so romantic, but all kinds of fun.
The beauty of being able to pick up and take off whenever and however you want, is one of the benefits of being on your tod. For you non-British readers out there, this means, ‘alone‘. And as an expert of doing most things ‘on me tod’, as they say oop norf, here is a smattering of things that are possible, which make being a PANK awesome.
as above, TRAVELLING
Pack a small bag, book a 20€ flight, find a ridiculously reasonable AirBnB and voila! You’re off. No waiting for the school holidays, when the prices are hiked ten fold, no worry about entertainment for the under 18s, no worry about your own entertainment. Late nights-check, lie-ins-check. casual, wine-punctuated city strolls-check. It’s all good.
If you want to avoid being stabbed, let me sleep. I love to sleep as much as my noisy neighbourhood will allow me to and very much enjoy not having an alarm at the weekend; analogue, digital or physical. Come Saturday morning there are no little people knocking the door, bundling in, jumping on, quietly destroying the kitchen like tiny stealth destruction ninjas, redecorating the lounge walls with the Spring/Summer range from Crayola, killing the cat/the dog/each other. Bliss.
With no particular thing in mind, strolling around minding your own business, mysteriously drawn to a beautiful new pair of boots. You drift in to the shop, hazily try on the footwear as if having an out of body experience. You arrive home with a shopping bag, you have no real recollection of picking up. Regaling tales in the pub to your friends, about that time you were on the ceiling, watching yourself at the cash till. No worrying about how to pay after school club or afford all the kale and quinoa for Jamie’s Everyday Super Food’s dinners to feed the family next week. Flying solo means you can supplement your purchase, by eating noodles/baked beans for two weeks. Totally guilt-free and without fear of social services intervening!!
THE ALL-DAY ‘BRUNCH’
Now, those of you who know me, know that I need no particular excuse to start drinking in the morning at the weekend. What’s not to love about a cheeky little mimosa? Or a chilled glass of pure unadulterated champers to compliment your eggs benedict or pancake stack? Bloody Mary anyone? And don’t be giving me none of your virgin cr*p, neither. What’s also not to love about finally rolling home, at about 8pm, having had so much fun at brunch, that it turned into lunch and then tea; and all the shenanigans ensued. Having sat down to tuck in at 10.30 of the a.m….
OWNING ALL THE POINTY THINGS
My flat has got so many corners, and sharp things (the latter being mostly to groom my eyelashes and brows. Oh yeah, and for food preparation. But not noodles/baked beans – see above). There are all manner of things to bump into, collect bruises from, graze/scratch yourself on and things that may fall on you from a decent height.
And don’t forget dangerous tripping cables, that could send you hurtling to the hard tiled floor – at best, over the balcony – at worst. There isn’t a day that goes by, where I don’t growly,
mumble shout, “You m*?!@@f*ck&%g c*?!t!!!” But the silver lining here, is that I don’t have to worry about those things happening to other people. Therefore I don’t need to tend to them – at best, rush them to hospital for emergency surgery – at worst. I can just encounter the pointy things, pour myself a glass of wine (but not in January, natch), and watch Poldark or the Musketeers or something, feel a little sorry for myself for a brief moment and then the moment has passed when I see this —->
So you see, being on your own, isn’t so bad after all, as long as you don’t sit in your house dwelling on the fact that you are on your own. Learn to live with and love your own company, and fill your time full of travel, art, friends and family, hobbies, books (hot television men in breeches)…..and alcohol.
But that last one only from the 1st February onwards, obviously.