Dirty thirty

When I was sixteen I was certain I’d have it all figured out by now. My sixteen year old self had me married off at 25, 28 at the absolute upper limit, with sprogs following in quick succession until my pelvic floor shrieks ‘HALT.’  And of course, amidst all of these undigested expectations of womanhood, I’d have definitely played at the National, at least twice.

I turn 30 in a matter of weeks… This is a letter to my sixteen year-old self:

Dear Kathryn,

Didn’t quite make the targets you set me. It was all going pretty much to plan, top university education, flounced across a few stages, bagged you a scholarly boyfriend early on: fell passionately in love (sacked off the degree a bit, but you know, love conquers all) and moved in for our ‘happily ever after’ by the time you are 25.

Thing is, he was a bit of a shit. I won’t go into it now, because you’re going to have to figure this stuff out for yourself, but love is blinkered and fogs up your barometers. I ignored my instincts because I thought I was falling in line, I’d bought the fairytale hook line and sinker, and then sank. (We made a schoolgirl error there me old girl, fairytales are all written by men).

Anyway, that whole shit storm took some time to get over. I had to leave my home, city, country for a bit. Clear my head. Make sure he wasn’t still following me, that sort of thing.

I just want you to know that it’s ok, I’m ok. In fact, I’m fucking brilliant. Yes I am over-qualified and unemployed. No, I’m not married, or looking like getting married, or having babies, or buying a house or any of the other stuff you are so sure I would do to put footholds in life’s cliff face.

I’m going to make my own stuff. Really, I’m going to write our story and other stories and tell them. Maybe for money, maybe not. I might go back to university, get another masters; I’m thinking psychotherapy. You’ll briefly consider it as a degree option when you pick your IB subjects, and then discard it because you don’t want to have to do a science at higher; but it’s ok, because I can pick up that baton for you now.

Basically what I’m telling you is, it took this long to get here. Stop frowning like that; it’s giving me a semi-permanent crease in my forehead. Trust me, here is good, and the view is breathtaking. I can fill a courtyard full of people I know and love, who bring me riches you can’t bank and feed me brimful with joy. And they all tell you a bit about every turn in the road, every crossroad, every time I tripped over, every time I decided yet again to ‘fuck it and see what happens’. There’s a person in your life for every single decision you made, and when you get here you’ll not want to unmake any of them, I promise.

So, I’m sorry if I’m not who you thought I would be, but I’m not done yet.

Good luck with your IGCSEs (you’re gonna ace them).

Lots of love,

Me xxx

A statement of intent

I went to interview for a day job today. Armed with my civilian CV and a splash of red lippie, I turned up in Toon to talk to a man about a job.

It was a real ‘put your money [or lack of it] where your mouth is’ moment.

There I was rattling off my previous experience, reeling off skills like pizza toppings-

‘You can tell you’re a writer [glancing down at his notes]. So, where do you see yourself in five to ten years?’

Had I said I was a writer? (I hadn’t said I was a writer, I’ve never said that because I’m not, until, maybe, now?)

Five to ten years? I should probably have had a stock answer ready for that one- he can't possibly expect me to say I want to be working in telesales in five to ten years, hang on, am I talking...?

‘In five to ten years I want to be part of a community, I intend to put roots down here in Newcastle, and I want to be in conversation with that community about the world around us…’ I smile. I am pleased. He is not.

Ad Man powers through, money, am I motivated by money?

‘No, not really.' I say, skimming my finger over a big red button labeled ‘SELF DESTRUCT’. 'I understand it’s necessary, but only so we can do the things that are really important.’

That raised a smile, another look down at his notes, for something, anything. His mouth moved; it was a bit like watching a goldfish at the fair, surrounded by bright lights and piles of tat we’re all supposed to want to win.

Could I see myself running one of the 95 offices the company will be opening this year?

Shit, how did we get here? My turn for goldfish impressions, I pout through the glass darkly, all the while locked in his unblinking earnest stare… I thought I was here to be someone’s marketing assistant, possibly a bit of telesales, you want me to run an office?

‘Fast track to manager within 6 months…’

 ‘No. To be honest, I can’t commit to that. As I said when I came in, I make theatre [it’s not a hobby, but there isn’t a box on your form for ‘other careers’]. And frankly, I could sit here and say yes, but then I’d be letting you invest time and training and in six months or less I’ll probably leave. Is honesty one of the traits you made a note of?'

[he consults his notes again, looks up, smiles] ‘Yes it is’.

We laugh.

‘Well I’m not going to waste anymore of my time’ he says graciously, without even a smidgen of rancor. ‘Thank you for coming in, you seem like a lovely lady…’

I definitely hadn’t said I was a lady…

And that was it, back out into the street, the sun high in my Northern sky.

And of course I’ve turned down jobs before, and promotions, and the snuggly comfortable security they could have brought with them. And yes, I have already said out loud that I want to make theatre, and a life, in the North East – but only to indulgent (actual) theatre makers, in the wee hours of the morning in the bonhomie bubble of Edinburgh fringe. Not to a real person, who thinks he’s talking to Kathryn Evans and doesn’t know how or why I have pinned my hair that way.

But now I’ve written it down. And put it on the internet.

And on Monday I’m meeting with a brilliant brain to pick her synapses for ways to produce a piece of work – the first thing I have ever written; we’re going to talk about how to make that real, too.

MORAL: Morals don’t pay.

P.s. If anyone wants me, I’ll be over here, polishing my ‘FOR HIRE’ sign.