That column in full

My attempt at providing some froth for the long commute home - not sure the girl in question will appreciate it:

"I have recently started seeing a very pretty young lady. I think we like each other. You know what it's like - boy meets girl, boy and girl decide they like each other, boy and girl subject everyone within a ten metre radius to copious public displays of affection. It disgusts people the length and breadth of the capital every day - except of course, the two protagonists.

Unfortunately said pretty girl, being a sweet and sensitive soul, ends up with an unfortunate rash on her chin each time we kiss, caused by my Desperate Dan-style, match-lighting stubble. Ever the gent, and taking advantage of a week’s holiday from my clean-shaven place of work, I decided to grow a beard, partly to see if it appeases the problem, partly because I have never had one before.

Unfortunately, one week of “mach-3-turbo-fusion-lube-buzz-quattro-tingle” razor avoidance later, I am in possession of an itchy, downy, fuzz (with a predominance of ginger) all over the lower regions of my face – not quite the Clooney-esque swarthiness I was hoping for. My girlfriend asked for a photo of it, and it doesn’t even come out on the picture, no matter what lighting/angle combo I aim for.

So here I am, a naturalised Londoner with almost four years veteran status, nice flat in an “up-and-coming” area, varied and hectic social life, suitably impressive yet ambiguous job title, and – most importantly – 29 years and counting on God’s green earth. And can I grow a beard? Can I heck. I’m sure by the time my dad was this age he was a proper man. I, on the other hand, look a little like I have lost my skateboard somewhere.

And that is the crux of the matter. It is yet another indication that I am too young to be this old. The world progresses at breakneck speed and I am left floundering in its wake. I am not ready for babies, mortgages, marriage, pension plans, career progression, organic produce, investment portfolios, dinner parties, or – apparently – facial hair. It’s yet another area where I feel like I’m failing in the “maturing” category.

But you know what? I like going with my mates to the pub every weekend, not caring about my job, really “fancying” the girl I’m with but not seeing beyond next week, renting a flat (ok, maybe not that one), being skint (ok, not that one either) and generally feeling lost and that I don’t want it to end any time soon.

Young people of London! Stop taking life so seriously! Slow down. Responsibility, the “5 ‘til 9” working day and emulating our parents can wait. Until then, let’s all get drunk, snog loads and rub news print on our faces."