Well and truly Cumberbatched (To be revised)

Chapter 1

Monday. Swiss Cottage Central Library.

Hampstead, London.

I come here most days on my lunch break from work, I’ll get around to what I attempt to do for a living later.

My house, or broomcupboard if you saw the size of it is perfectly nice but there’s just something about this place that draws me in all the time; maybe it’s the alluring aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, or the friendly faces I regularly see and the homely décor of the place.

A home away from home. Everyone needs one of those, my grandparents Arthur and Grace’s beautiful abode in Chichester, where I spent half of my summers as a child also springs to mind. 

I head upstairs via one of the many wooden spiral staircases to the philosophy and psychology section to borrow a copy of ‘A Comparative Study of the Psychology of the Unconscious’ to read over for a literature review I’m compiling for a research paper I’m currently writing. 

Job wise [insert yawn here], I’m a ‘web technologist’; I design and create websites for varying clients but I also co/write and publish academic papers within the realms of computer science incorporating subjects such as behavioural psychology, social media, and feminism.

I dabble in systems administration on large scale media productions sometimes but not often. It sounds like a lot but I like to challenge myself, and I like to buy nice things but they cost this annoying thing- money [insert eye roll here]. 

In my free time I’m "a bit" of a fangirl; a 'Hiddlestoner', 'Cumbercollectivian', 'Potter Head', 'Whovian', 'Sherlockian' and 'Trekkie' to name but a few fandoms I happily belong to and spend a lot of time getting lost in. Personally I blame Tumblr, it sucks you in, drains your soul, and spits you out. 

That's a lie, you can never spend too much time fangirling.

As nice as things are I’m kind of bored, with society.

Sometimes I just, I suppose. Well. 

I want to be wanted. It's not easy to admit to oneself but there it is. 

That one person in your life that you can tell everything to, who's happy to listen to your sleepy ramblings, makes you grow even more as a person, who you can enjoy the simple beauty of art but who's not against lazy mornings curled up in bed, knitted socks and all. 

Jolyon.

We were 17, well I was 16 and three quarters. 

Sadly we split when we were 20, sometimes things change.

I changed, he changed, the pieces just didn't fit anymore. 

"We’re still good friends to this day though, it wasn’t a bad breakup by any means", is what I tell myself.

Truth be told, it was more like a confusing 'how the hell do I process this?!' one. I might get round to explaining it one day, it's not something I think about often, because I can't. I prefer not to. 

Heartbroken. Let's just use that word to paint a picture and leave it like that for now. 

I’m 23 now by the way.

I decided to head to the ‘red room’ to make a few notes in my notepad at a small oak table by a wall length window, watching people dot around on the pavement below, some were making calls and meeting friends for lunch, the lucky ones were out shopping, their new trinkets and Friday night outfits innocently lounging in a paper, plastic, or woven bag. 

Soon enough the hours started to run away from me, time is a funny thing, the one thing we can't conrol but still find a way of bending to our will. Did I just contradict myself? Possibly, but at least I sounded clever in the process.