In Praise of Adventure

As a kid, I was something of a tomboy. Not an overly masculine child - I never sported a bowl haircut or boys' shoes, like some girls I knew - but I knew the value of a good hedge den. Throughout my childhood I vowed that I would never, ever carry a handbag, on the grounds that they clearly hindered the process of having adventures, and my interests revolved more around watching films, making treasure maps and running around the countryside than playing with dolls or braiding hair.

I was a latecomer to make-up and fashion and even once those elements of female life had been acknowledged, it took me the best part of fifteen years to 'find myself' as self-help gurus would say. Having experimented unsuccessfully with various styles, I finally came to realise that neither the hippy boho look, nor the lycra-clad chav persona was for me.

Although my budget tends to restrict the expression of my innate fashion sense, I think it's fair to say that style-wise, I should really be living in the 40s. The ladylike trends, flattering yet demure tailoring and those fabulous shoes would have suited me down to the ground. The fashions, and indeed lifestyle, of the 21st century is sorely lacking in romance and chivalry, to my mind, something which causes me almost daily consternation.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that although I'm a reasonably feminine person, I wasn't always like that and I have never harboured desires to be a domestic goddess. I don't think any women do really. You do occasionally come across these strange creatures whose only wish, from the moment they drop out of the womb, is to start filling their own with little Johnnies and Janes. They dream of nothing more than becoming a mum, feathering the nest and mastering the art of the novelty birthday cake.

Now I am not for one moment slating that point of view. I admire anyone with such drive, for any avenue of life. But I think those sorts of women are actually quite rare; that most of us probably imagined for ourselves something rather more exotic than the role of the average wife / girlfriend / mother.

I'm sure I'm not alone in sometimes wondering where that female Indiana Jones went, the one who would have been trekking across the Andes from the age of eight, were it not for that pesky 'being a minor' thing. When I'm balling socks or trudging through the aisles of Tesco, wondering whether to go for own brand toilet roll or splash out on Andrex (if you'll excuse the pun), it does cross one's mind to speculate on when all the adventures might be starting.

Of course I am not immune to the charms of home-making. After all, your home is your ultimate retreat from the world. If your little sanctuary is tainted, either in a physical or emotional sense, you may as well give up on getting through this life in one piece. I take a passing interest in decoration and have recently vowed to tackle one of my largest failings (of which there are many), my utter hopelessness in the kitchen. While I stand no chance whatsoever of suddenly morphing into Nigella - those breasts would be a fabulous start - it is surely the mark of the grown-up to be able to produce at least one edible dish.

But though I'm getting unexpected joy from whisking egg whites, jointing chickens and anxiously manipulating the pasta machine, it sometimes feels like I'm missing the point somewhat. Don't get me wrong - I have a wonderful life and I'm very grateful for all that I have. Indeed, many people insist that your family is the greatest journey of discovery on which you will ever embark. And I do not suggest that the 'where did all the possibilities go' syndrome is exclusive to women. It's just that sometimes I feel like life could do with a little 'je ne sais quo' and I'm sure I'm not alone.

So let us down tools, people. Lay down that iron, throw away the wooden spoon, kick the lawnmower to the curb. Rise up, my friends - let the adventures begin.