So, Fortnite did something most of us never thought possible yesterday. That's right, they actually pulled the plug on the game, and left 250,000,000 players stranded and isolated, with only a scalp to scratch and a bucket to cry into for grievance sake. Well, I mean, I didn't need the bucket. In fact, I bloody hate Fortnite. So, I just sort of laughed when I heard the news.
Pass by Over Farm in Gloucester, UK on a regular day, and you might just come across a few farmyard animals and a couple of pick-your-own patches. Oh, and the finest handmade pasties in the world, of course.
Since I was young, I wanted to make something of myself. I had it engraved in my mind that by following a simple rule each and every day, something positive would eventually find its way to me one way or another. And, you know, that was something I stuck with for a decade or so, right up until my 18th birthday. That's sort of when it lopsided and derailed a bit. But I can only blame alcohol and persuasive friends for that, to be honest. They're probably the reason I lost the ambition to better myself through hard work, and instead replaced a quill with a shot of Sambuca in order to fill my productivity gauge. That, as well as a series of bad choices and a very rocky sense of naivety.
Getting recognised in 2019 is slightly tough, wouldn't you say? And, unless you've swallowed a bath bomb or discovered the next big meme, you probably aren't going to stand out to anyone but your own family. Honestly, that's a bit sad. And, like most, I've often dreamt of making a name for myself. But, I'm a writer, so those ludicrous chances went from one in a hundred, to a straight flat zero in seconds.
You know, one of the first things a stranger said to me when I took my newborn daughter out for the first time, was, "Oh, you're too young to be a parent!" But, as much as Pauline, the waitress from Pizza Hut, might've offended me that afternoon, as I scoffed my face with sundae sprinkles, I never quite took it too close to heart. Because I felt like I could prove the bitch wrong someday. And it started off by complaining to management and getting a £20 refund from our next order. But that was besides the point. I was going to prove to this stranger and anyone else who doubted my parenting methods that I was capable of raising a child. Even if that did mean having to lose the balloon hats at TGI Fridays. Because, you know, I'm an adult, and adults don't wear balloon hats. Unless on special occasions. But anyway, as I was saying.
Funerals. Dead bodies. Black ties and baggy eyes. There's something quite concerning about it all, isn't there? Working in the funeral trade isn't for everyone. That's something I can say with confidence. Because like most, I assumed it would be the most morbid, depressing, and mundane career on the planet. And to be fair, I guess I was half right. When I took on the job as a part-time undertaker at the age of fifteen, I wasn't overly sure what the trade consisted of outside of the funeral service. I mean, I knew there was paperwork and travelling, but besides from the obvious, I wasn't aware of the 'special tasks' that would take place behind closed doors.