I have realised that I am more Bert than Ernie.
Despite what my autobiography may one day refer to as 'the questionable cider decades', I am not a wild child. I am no rebel. My spirit is not free. My spirit wears a cardigan and insists on strong tea. My Fitbit told me so.
For those who don't have one yet (they are an inevitability), the fitness tracker gives your arm a buzz when you reach the daily target of steps. My daily target is 10,000 steps which I always reach on the way home... outside the exact same Spar.
This may not seem surprising (or lets face it, even vaguely interesting). I take the same route to work and home so it adds up to much the same and YET this also means all my caffeine-addled dashes to the kettle, my impromptu consultations with colleagues (aka bad office flirting), toilet trips, lunch-break wanders, and any free-style jigs I partake in all add up to the exact same amount, give or take a margin of five steps. Sit down Alan Partridge, that's world champion level dull predictability.
Further evidence of this bludgeoning of spontaneity came with a recent trip to Topman. I bought two fresh identical plain black jumpers as the two identical plain black jumpers I already have are sometimes in the wash. These are always worn with one pair of my six pairs of identical plain black jeans. Topped off with one of two identical plain black hats. To add a cheeky dash of excitement to this outfit I chucked in two identical plain black t-shirts because why the hell not? I was thrilled with myself. Or as thrilled as someone who dresses like Goth Rosie from Corrie (2005-2006) can be.
I have previously talked of my love off being a cafe regular and so it could seem my lust for ordered routine is turning into a mild obsession. But I just prefer to run the background bits of life on autopilot as much as possible. I know how some folk embrace the challenge of assembling a statement outfit and can imagine how creating and stepping into a fresh character each morning sparks joy as they strut the pavement. I whole-heartedly admire a put-together 'look at me' look in others. I'm just not arsed myself. I was not put-together, I hit the snooze button three times and nodded off again in the shower.
While I still have an Ernie side (yes, I have had spontaneous fun, reasonable night transport home allowing), I will always champion the Bert. The Bert side is old enough to know what it likes and how it likes it. The Bert side welcomes buying the same jumper again because the last one went bobbly in the wash. The Bert side shamelessly orders the same lunch five times a week because it's what you like to eat. The Bert side savours getting to bed before midnight. The Bert side doesn't need every banal life choice to be a whizzbangpopper of an adventure.
If you don't know (and secretly love) your own Bert side yet, you will. He's coming.
I'm on Twitter @theroryjohn
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