Tomorrow I will take my first journey in almost decade, sans railcard. In the eyes of train travel chiefs, I am no longer a Young Person.
I knew I was pushing it last year when, following in the footsteps of the wise generations before me, I bought my final 16-25 travel card one week before my 26th birthday.
Knowing I’d (sort of) cheated the system made me feel momentarily powerful. I had a taste of true freedom - I could go anywhere (in Britain) that I cared to, travel (on a train) to my hearts’ content. I could drink tiny bottles of expensive wine, in a packed out carriage that smells faintly of urine and sadness for just two thirds of the price. The freedom! (The toasties, too.)
Now it’s all over. Tomorrow, the train wine will be bitter.
It’s 27 which has done it. And it’s just one of the things which has made life slightly greyer since I left 26 behind.
For instance, I can’t really write a blog called 26 & Counting. I can no longer blame being unorganised on being in my ‘mid-twenties’ - I can’t really say I’m in my ‘mid-twenties’. Now I don’t have an excuse for my chipped nail varnish, as I stay home on Friday nights a LOT and my job fits better with my age, which makes me nervous. Eating Coco Pops feels less acceptable.
I was warned that 27 would be The Year that I’d change and take more risks for my career and risk less hangovers. In a way, they’re right: I woke up on my birthday realising that 30 suddenly sounds like a real number, a looming lifestyle moments away - and, in sartorial protest, donned my DMs and a 90s choker for the day to prove I wasn’t there yet.
But I'd take all of that for one last carefree one-third-free journey up to the north. RIP railcard, RIP youth.