If advising your younger self were an option, what would you say? The first problem is obvious. That question assumes you have arrived, after a long journey, at the Clarity Station. Now omniscient, you move back through the train, handing out pithy pamphlets to curious window gazers.
“Enjoy the ride, you only go round once.” Check.
“Trust your gut.” Check.
“Find the funny. It will make the hurt go away.” Check.
My ticket may have been stamped a few times but I have some ways to go.
Misplaced advice could also redirect travellers around the Tunnel of Errors and Mayhem.
Nobody should miss that part of the trip. Ever. Unless you have an allergy to fun.
Do you really want to advise your juvenile self at all?
Yesterday, a former TV colleague sent me a documentary about life in a 1980’s newsroom. I spent the first half of my adult life in such a place. I was grass green when I began. A decade later, still shades from seasoned, I had nevertheless picked up a few tricks, and some very fine friends.
What you won’t see off camera was a haven of hijinks.
I’ll let you figure out who were the insufferable sorts, starting first with the younger version of me, seen at 16:36 in this clip, pretending I don’t have laryngitis. It’s hilarious, now.
Hear that chugging? That’s the train. Someone is waving wildly as it passes by. That would be me. I’m still getting off on the view.