I oscillate between wanting to want to practice as a lawyer (I appreciate the inane desire to do so is non-existent) and on the other hand, whole heartedly recognising that the life in the legal realm is at odds with, well, everything else in my life.

I desperately survey career advertisements in search of a single add that excites me. Nothing. Nill. Zilch.

A new day arrives. At 8:00 am I feel a sense of content with the concept of being a personal trainer/yoga instructor and by 12:00, I want to be a feature writer. It’s 12:30 and I want to be a novelist. Come 3:00, I simply wish to be a mother.

I am scared by the uncertainty and perplexed that I find myself here again. The realm of the unknowing. At nearly thirty, how can I not know? My ambition envy has escalated to new heights. Bitch. She knows. She’s happy. He’s happy. Crap. It seems everyone else knows.

Or, perhaps everyone else is satisfied being dissatisfied, content to live a life of mediocrity. Perhaps it is unrealistic of me to expect more, to want more and to demand more from my own life. Perhaps I should settle for the safe course: Practice law, have babies, become partner, make money. The outcome is near set in stone, if I choose it.

“Choose Life”, as Irvine Welsh aptly described succumbing to the mundane and mediocre in “Trainspotting”. Choose life. Quite tempting really, the safe course.

Not me. I choose living.

I am terrified by my new-found perception of “ambition”. The word is foreign, dirty, and entirely distasteful. It seems the girl who studied for eight years to achieve her bachelors has left the building, with the last remaining supply of a-m-b-i-t-i-o-n  packed firmly in her satchel.

I no longer covet my best friend’s body, nor her wardrobe. It is her desire to achieve, to climb the corporate ladder, Jimmy Choo’s and all that I gaze upon in wonder.

I have ambition envy. But yet, I even lack the ambition to regenerate my ambition.

I have advanced numerous theories to explain the sudden onset of corporate repulsion. Perhaps it is the birthday thug waiting for me around the corner, wielding a bat emblazoned with his gang’s emblem, “Number 30″. Each anticipated strike is a reminder of my ticking biological clock and the fact that the glass ceiling, like it or not, will always be there….Or, perhaps it is a by-product of years in practice and a recognition that dreams of achieving justice are just that, dreams.

Or perhaps it is simply that I want to be a mother. Again. I want to care for babies, to care for my family, my home and myself. A cause that, I think, is as valid as any other.

What you taste and smell,

What you see,

what you hear.

In all things be a master

Of what you do an say and think

Be free.

Are you quiet?

Quieten your body.

Quieten your mind.

By your own efforts

Waken yourself,

watch yourself,

And live joyfully.

Follow the truth of the way.

Reflect upon it. Make it your own.

Live it.

It will always sustain you.

- from the Dhammapada

It is only a question of time before I snap and “Project Mayhem” takes over my working life. Eventually the facade is bound to collapse, and Tyler Durden will be revealed to all….and damn, he is one sick puppy.

I remember the first time a friend’s words broke me. She didn’t want to be my best-friend anymore. I hid under a bush and cried. When she asked what was wrong, I wailed, “My horse died.” I didn’t even have a horse.

There were many more chapters to Part I.

Part II. When I was fifteen (or thereabouts) I dumbed my first serious boyfriend. I had developed that nauseating sense of repulsion each time we touched. As my dump-truck reversed, his disappointment was incapable of being masked beneath the veil of tears. An onslaught of humiliation for a boy one year my senior. And, as quickly as the tears flowed, the male friendships inherited as a result of our union quickly vaporised. Shortly thereafter the bullying onset. Their damaged egos stimulated punishing taunts that still echo in my ears.

It seems things haven’t changed in the fifteen odd years that have since passed. I’ve never had a broken bone but words continue to fracture the very core of my sense of “self”. School yard bullying has translated into behaviour justified under the guise of “office politics”. The Firm is a labyrinth of hair-pulling and tongue poking dressed up in three-piece suites and Alannah Hill sweaters.

Part III promises to be a long chapter.

Glass doors are shut like a slap to the face and nasty dialogue ensues. Faces twist and contort in vile words.

Looks and sporting ability no longer carve divisions. Instead the “schoolyard” finds its bonds in such measures as billables, title and hierarchy. Yet the rules of the game are otherwise unchanged: Intermingling of “groups” is strictly forbidden; ganging up encouraged and “trust” a prized marble lost beneath layers of worn bark-chips.

I feel saddened as I am forced to retrieve a repertoire of dust laden shields to counter the onslaught of verbal fire that seems a priority on my colleagues’ to-do lists.

New York, New York. Women strutting Fifth Avenue in towering Jimmy Choo’s, their pampered poodles in tow: Saks; Tiffany & Co; Barneys; Harry Winston. Consumer heaven. And hidden beneath the over-indulgent commercial sect of the fashion capital, a plethora of hide-and-seek treasures await in an abundance of vintage boutiques.

Soho; the upper West Side; Manhattan, Bagels and Mr Big. I heart New York.

Then there are the practical difficulties that stem from attempting to squeeze a household’s belongings into a three by three room. Our cupboards are packed with a lucky dip of our possessions and dressing each morning now resembles a jack-in-the-box stylised Santas’ sack, resulting in work attire that is more ‘eclectic’ than ‘corporate’. I can hear Ikea calling my name.

In addition to these logistical issues, it seems that a number of ‘fragile’ packages have also been unpacked in error. I believed these to be archived somewhere between a shattered heart from a previous relationship and the body issues of my adolescence. I was clearly mistaken.

The very tensions that drove me from home in the first place….and on the second occasion, and the third…are still very much alive and the briefly felt serendipity of returning from work to a clean home and a cooked meal is fast becoming lost to a gladiator battle of estrogen.

It seems mother dear, holds the key to my very own Pandora’s box of emotions. She always has and, it seems, she always will. Forget yogi-zen-buddha-minded practices: the clear blue sky quickly amasses with dark, angry clouds and relentless downpour when mother and I live together. Within days , the claws were out, and after only one week, fur was flying in every direction. My dad, my brother, the Boy, and his wife smile in amusement at our family’s adaptation of “Punch & Judy”. A sell out performance each night, guaranteed.

Despite getting old, displaying wrinkles, having babies, jobs and other responsibilities, it is obvious that some things never change.

There is absolutely no doubting the way we feel about one another. Our love is as intense as it is giving. A perfect union of lives and minds.  Yet, until very recently, the Boy has refused to discuss marriage.  At twenty-four, and as the child of divorced parents, I cannot say that I blame him. He is of course, still, a boy. However, I also refuse to blame myself. I am moving beyond ideal child-bearing age. My mind is fraught with concerns about fertility, quality of eggs, miscarriage and my waning energy levels. To me, these are both valid and illustrative of my longing for another child, or two, and all well before my (*gasp) thirty-third birthday.

A necessary precursor to discussions of ovulation and lactation is ‘the event’; a wedding allowing mother and daddy dearest ample opportunity to gloat about a fairytale ending to my “breakfast club” adolescence; and, to ensure a perfectly svelte figure worthy of awing guests metabolizing at a pre-twenty-five vintage, a year-long engagement. On my calculations, this makes a proposal, time critical. I do, I do, I do already my dear.

As I recently revealed, we’re going to Europe. In order to save for the adventure, the Boy and I have spent the weekend recreating our three-bedroom home in a three by three room that adjoins my parents’ lounge- an outcome I would have preferred avoid. Nonetheless, the down-sizing will enable us to pay for the trip, threefold. All perfectly rational. Enter the new addition to our family: A “Cervelo bicycle. For those unaccustomed to the genre (and hence the terminology) of lycra clad middle-aged men that awkwardly hobble around cosmopolitan cafes on a Sunday morning, a “Cervelo” translates as an incredibly expensive, ostentatious, glaringly loud, road bike. In fact, “the same one used in the Tour de France” the Boy assures me. Notwithstanding the shiny paint and subsequent assurances that “it is a long-term investment”, I deem the purchase to be entirely unnecessary.

Such abundant expenditure in advance of an overseas trip, and in the wake of a return to my parents’, fuelled a temper that has, for months, been in hiatus. Alas, my public rage is entirely justified, and excusable in this instance. So, notwithstanding my nanna nickers my head is held high.

Tonight we deliberate: Planes vs. train?

The ever elusive “time” is the glaringly obvious benefit to aircraft travel although, the temporal savings are not as promising as they might at first appear. Many a novice traveller will forget to factor in time for check-in, commuting to the airport and, in some cases, customs too.

A gift of time also needs to weighted against the painfully plentiful disadvantages of aircraft travel: Planes are congested at the best of times but draw the short straw, and one might find themselves seated beside a horizontally challenged being, occupying the large part of their seat, and your own. Maneuverability becomes but a distant memory. Other less than desirous travelling companions include the incessant talker, the unshaven man wielding a trophy of poor personal hygiene and a duo, comprising screaming toddler and exasperated parent.

There is also the very real consideration of lost luggage. The Association of European Airlines reveals that the European average for lost luggage is sixteen pieces per thousand passengers and the likelihood of being slogged for excess baggage, even greater. Obviously for each stop-over, the risks (along with the costs) are multiplied.

In addition to avoiding the aforementioned pitfalls, train travel provides flexibility and an unparalleled opportunity to observe the diverse landscape of Europe (for hours and hours and hours on end). Armed with a good read, time is no longer the enemy. Moreover, recent recent research commissioned by Eurostar reveals that taking the train to Paris instead of flying cuts CO2 emissions per passenger by 90%! Bonus.

So, to join the mile-high club or ride with Thomas and Friends? We’re opting for a plane flight for the Paris to Barcelona leg, as a saving of more than ten hours is well worth the risks. We reason, that the pleasure to be derived from scenery must surely be capped. For the remainder of our journey however, we will be arming ourselves with books and games aplenty and exploiting the green route for all it has to offer.