I've always been a lucky one. I know that's perhaps not something you're meant to say; we live in a world where people tend to favour those with sob stories - think of each year's 'X Factor' winners and you'll get what I mean. I live in a very comfortable house, with very loving parents, a dog, and a gorgeous older sister. I was educated at wonderful schools, and in October, I found myself unpacking my books at the University of Cambridge. I'd fallen into it. I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was there without really feeling that I'd earnt it, and without really wanting to study what I was studying. Topped with the guilt of my privilege, I started to become depressed. In fact, I'd started many moons ago, but three weeks into my studies there, I cracked. I had no choice but to degrade, to take a year to think.
And so, two weeks later, I find myself on an unplanned gap year, remembering exactly what I do want: I want to write. I want to be one of those blessed few who lights up the day of another by reflecting on one of life's idiosyncrasies, whose creativity flows through their veins, into their fingertips and out onto the page. I want to be a journalist.
One can write a lot in a year, and I plan to. This, my friends, is to be an account of the path not taken, from the view of the one who took it.
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