"All change please, this train has reached its destination."

I have an extremely short attention span. So short l spend my 40 minute commute to work constantly switching between radio stations to avoid any chatter whilst eating toast and gawking at other bleary eyed drivers. All at 70mph. In the dark. It will therefore come as no surprise that my 17-odd year long driving history is littered with minor (and not quite so minor) accidents. I shall soon run out of insurance companies that are willing to insure me for less than a bar of gold.

I just get bored easily. Always have done. Hence the 3 month hiatus in writing. I have nothing new to say, bad or good. I could regale you with tales of learning to surf (more time was spent learning how to get sand out of various orifices), consumption of gin (walking into a glass door in the middle of a packed bar), and rugby injuries (a hand that turned entirely black for 2 weeks), but it would be nothing that l have not said before. In truth, my life is pleasant and l am happy, but l have never been content with the status quo.

When l felt like this as a child my mother thrust me into an overall, sent me out with my wellies on, and told me l was not allowed home until tea-time. I inevitably would end up late, covered in mud, periodically twitching from hours spent playing with electric fences.

As a teenager this boredom was alleviated by altering my appearance. Cutting my hair, dying it bright colours, getting a tattoo, piercing various parts of my anatomy until l got so desperate for change l shaved off all of my hair. I looked like a satanic Buddhist monk (?). My mother refused to acknowledge me for an entire week.

The changes were more drastic in my early twenties. When that familiar feeling of ennui settled on my shoulder I would quit my job, pack up my bag, grab a passport, and travel, seeking adventure and challenge in unfamiliar faces and landscapes. Until I ended up in Australia, bankrupt with no work permit, and having to crawl back to the UK with my tail between my legs.

Indeed, becoming a teacher was in no small part due to my need for constant stimulation (*snigger*) and challenge. But now my feet are beginning to itch again (metaphorically speaking. No fungal infections here thank you). My life lacks a specific direction, and l feel motionless. But I can smell change in the air, and l don't know what, where, or when, but l am ready for it.

It just won't be shaving off my hair.