A Gap Year.

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Right, I've had a cracking idea! so I’ve decided to take a gap year! Instead of having a gap year before Uni.Why not a gap year between your last year at work and retirement!? Yes. A whole year off. From what, you ask? Life. Just... life. I’m knackered. I’ve been doing it for ages. Woke up, did stuff, went to bed. Repeated. For decades. I deserve a break. I’ve earned it. I want a gap year from responsibility, from expectations, from people who say things like “circle back” and “touch base.” I want to touch nothing. I want to be base-less. Like a rogue molecule. Floating. Unbothered.

Now, traditionally, a gap year is for students. They go backpacking round Thailand, find themselves in a hammock, get a tattoo of a turtle with the word “peace” in Sanskrit, which actually says “chicken korma.” Brilliant. They come back enlightened, with dreadlocks and a new appreciation for quinoa. Me? I’m not doing any of that. I’m not finding myself. I know exactly where I am. I’m in my flat, in my pants, watching reruns of “Columbo” and eating cereal out of a mug. That’s enlightenment.

People say, “You should travel.” Why? I’ve got Google Earth. I’ve seen the pyramids. Zoomed right in. Didn’t even have to queue. No sunburn, no camel rides, no haggling with a man who insists his cousin invented papyrus. I’ve travelled. Spiritually. Through the medium of staying put.

And the pressure! “What are you going to do with your gap year?” Nothing. That’s the point. If I do something, it’s not a gap, is it? It’s a wedge. A wedge year. I don’t want a wedge. I want a void. A glorious, empty void. I want to wake up at noon, eat toast with questionable toppings, and stare out the window like a Victorian ghost. That’s the dream.

I told my wife I was taking a gap year. She said, “From what?” I said, “From everything.” She said, “You’ve been doing nothing for months.” I said, “Exactly. I’m ahead of schedule.” She doesn’t get it. She thinks productivity is noble. I think it’s a trap. A capitalist con. You work hard, buy things, then work harder to pay for the things you bought. It’s like being mugged by your own ambition.

I want to be idle. Properly idle. Not “scrolling through my phone” idle. I mean staring at a wall and thinking about crisps. I want to become one with the sofa. Melt into it. Like a man-shaped dent. I want pigeons to look through the window and go, “He’s still there. He’s committed.”

And when the year’s up, I’ll emerge. Like a butterfly. Or a bloke who’s just remembered how trousers work. I’ll rejoin society, refreshed, rejuvenated, slightly feral. People will say, “Where have you been?” And I’ll say, “Nowhere. And it was glorious.”

So yes. A gap year. Not to find myself. To lose myself. In comfort. In stillness. In toast. Cheers.


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