Breaking Off - What Colour Are My Balls?

Right, so time to get off the sofa and get better.  But first, who the hell was I?  In the Army I knew exactly who I was.  I had been fully deconstructed and reassembled on the drill square and during log runs at Sandhurst and had been put back together as a fully automated, commissioned officer.  I had a uniform (badly ironed and the late night v-shaped scars on my right arm to prove it), I had a rank, I had a fixed, unswervable daily routine, including a silver service feeding plan, I lived and worked with people who just got things done and put the world to rights in the bar afterwards.  I had responsibility, things expected of me, frequent urgent despatches to go cross country skiing for weeks at a time, the opportunity for fully-inclusive package holidays to hot, hot places with tea and medals on return. On the firing ranges I knew that I would miss most things at 100m and hit everything from 300m with a respirator on; at my office I knew there would always be someone awaiting a bollocking stood outside and a fresh brew on the desk inside; in the bar I knew that I could get five bottles of Verve for €50 and pour 4 of them over those stood around me who would either be naked or at least in fancy dress.  The madness was the sanity. The crazy world made sense.  And then, a little tired after a year-long one of those hot, hot package deals, I left.

And I drifted.  Drifted while moving in a highly-organised fashion between project management jobs as that seemed to be what the world thought it needed although didn't quite know what to do with.  The thing was, I had absolutely no idea what I was aiming for- didn't have a clue whether it was the pink, the red, the brown, the black and where the hell was the cue ball when I needed it?  Sod the f*****g parachute, what colour were my balls?  Did I even have any anymore?! Where were those impulsive, stubborn cahunas that had steered me into the Army careers office on my way home from a bad day in the City (recruitment consultant - every day was a bad day) and enrolled me at Sandhurst three weeks later; the ones that bought an Audi TT convertible over a dodgy internet connection in Basra (justification for upgrading from trusty Renault Clio: surviving); the ones that got my underwear caught alight in the Paris Hilton (hotel, not the Chihuahua-clutching blonde) one snowy New Year; the ones that got me a spontaneous nose job in Harley Street following a particularly traumatic break-up; the ones that drove me to France on the wrong side of the road the day after passing my driving test. Yes, where the f*** were they now.

The simple epiphany came while I was stood in the shower wondering which flavour shower gel to use that morning.  Squashed into the tiny rack in front of me were no less than five different shower gels, three shampoo and conditioners and two face washes.  That was it.  My life was overloaded- exploding with too much choice.  No wonder I no longer knew who I was- I didn't even know which of anything was my favourite, my signature, anymore.  And this was the same in every corner of my flat as I looked around.  Scented candles: orange grove, vanilla and honey, red berry, seagrass (wtf?) FMBs: brown, dark brown, tan, black, black with spurs, grey. Tea: English breakfast, earl grey, organic green, green with manuka, camomile and honey, lemon and ginger (I hate ginger). Cook books: Jamie, Nigella, Ella, Hugh F-W, Gordon (decorative). Books: three at a time bought every time from Waterstones and never read, just stacked. Jewellery: mountains of it lying oxidising in various tins and boxes.  I'd lost myself.  Not in a romantic chapter of desperation and depression but under a pile of...'stuff'.

So I decided to streamline then and there.  Indulge in my favourite things all of the time because they were 'me'.  Use the things I liked, no matter what their value- what occasion exactly was I saving them for? Live- get on with it.  And I promised myself the following...just because that's where I'm at:

• Shower gel:  Molton Brown Templetree  (and Dove if feeling poor)
• Tea: English Breakfast and Earl Grey (together, in a pot)
• FMBs: Sort yourself out, its summer- barefeet and flip flops
• Books: William Boyd (Cecilia Ahern in moments of absolute weakness)
• Box Sets: Breaking Bad (do not attempt to watch GOT simultaneously)
• Soaps: Eastenders every day and Made in Chelsea on Mondays (of course)
• Sports Kit: Sod everything and leave trainers on doormat
• Perfume: Bulgari by night and JLo in the sunshine
• Men: streamlined to devastating perfection. May need to compromise (will require therapy)

Balls.