It feels like, for the last few years, I’ve been doing tourism into what your thirties are like, almost to prepare myself. I’ve dipped in and out. I’ve sampled the experience.” “Like what?” I asked. “Like . . . I don’t know, going to the Cotswolds for a weekend minibreak.” “I see,” I said. “Or having a cleaner come once a month.” “Right! Or buying an iron or being in a book club. But tonight, I’ve realized, I’m not a tourist anymore. I can’t go on holiday into my thirties, then retreat back into the shabby hopefulness of my twenties. I’m actually just there now.” “Oh God,” I said, the
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