Whimsical red

Reflections on turning 21

I’m on my way to Vienna, looking unexpectedly polished - and strangely enough, just feeling as composed. For once, my usual crippling travel anxiety isn’t with me. I order green tea, skip the food, thank you very much, and dive into work en route. Lashes done, nails done, I feel pressed and perfected. A strong start.

It feels like stepping through a time portal. I remember when I used to dream of becoming of what I am now - worldly and worthy in my own eyes. Those early, idealistic cues and visions shaped by instinct rather than instruction. Limited resources - mercifully, there was no TikTok when I was eleven. “How to be that woman” was a private reverie and that made it all the more intoxicating. I played an internal game. It existed only when I acknowledged it - without thought, it just dissolves.

So I must indulge the fantasy and wait, I thought…

I found the people of Vienna unusually attuned, hyper responsive. Glances met, conversations had, attention effortlessly given. It felt as though London, for once, had slowed its absolutely relentless pace and paused long enough for me to be seen. I enjoyed the clarity of my own sharpened senses, attuned and indulgent in the immediate moment as if every thought loop had been erased from my mind. Quite exquisite. I suppose that’s the very definition of a vacation.

I crave a sense of ascent. I’m carrying a box with a custom-made black pillbox hat inside and I’m enveloped in tonka beans and patchouli. I overspray, deliberately, knowing and unrepentant - in all honesty, that’s far worse than ignorance, because defiance is calculated. I am not reckless in my indulgences. I justify them, and that’s much worse…

Once again, I crave ascent. That sharp little feeling of oh, I need some whimsy. But only with a vice-like grip on myself. Maybe next Tuesday at 11, I’ll do something absurd and spontaneous. Orchestrated madness. Like a posh boy who’s never taken public transport stepping onto a bus and commanding the driver - take me somewhere. Deluded, hilarious, but in his mind, perfectly reasonable. How many participants does it take for something to be reasonable, anyway? Never mind, let’s not get that political.

My father arrives in the stunning hotel lobby, wrapped in an overcoat. To the trained eye, it’s pure English heritage impeccably done. To the untrained eye, he might be cosplaying Frodo Baggins. He’s carrying vintage Rimowa, and before we even get to say hi, my attention goes straight to the suitcase.

“God, I love Rimowa. I have never seen this one before.”

He laughs and likely wonders why on earth I have such enthusiasm for something so.. practical in his eyes. Perhaps he’s debating whether I extend this enthusiasm to other utilitarian objects - sinks, maybe? Filing cabinets? I laugh, but I wouldn’t put it past me.

I spend much of my time within the bubble of the hotel - once a horse stable, now vast, multidimensional, grandiose. The staff are impeccable, they know exactly what they are doing, and I take great pleasure in that. I enjoy being in my room, ordering Martinis, and calling room service for just one more.

I can now hold brief conversations in German.

I always try to slip a generous tip into their hands before closing the door, but they refuse. I love generosity. I hold a radical belief that bringing others happiness will bring me happiness in return. No imposition, just the satisfaction of knowing I tried. So I kept on trying.

The next evening, we are at the glorious Musikverein. Just before the start of the concert, my dearest father drifts into reminiscence.

“You know, there used to be this club in London. The owners were queer. Princess Margaret was a regular, how she adored those boys. One evening, the owner - a dear friend, and of course, fabulously queer - put one foot up on a chair and said to me, “Oh darling, I’m no fairy, but I can fly if you want me to.” The house burned down.”

I laugh uncontrollably, but I can’t help noticing how much attention he commands simply by being. Not the usual up-and-down, but something deeper - everyone instinctively drawn in, waiting for the next joke, the next story, the next moment of him just being unapologetically polarising.

Wherever we go, we’ll either be kicked out in seconds or treated like royalty. No in-betweens.

I find myself trying to bring this indifference into my life - though, truthfully, I don’t have to try too hard. We’re too alike for that. And you, dearest reader, are surely not too surprised by it. You know me too well. I’m only talking about the shame of the modern woman being tossed around like a terminal patient shopping for a wig. Or like a stray dog, forever needing to be groomed. I’m too proud for that. Way too proud.

On my birthday night, I sit at the bar and let the bartender surprise me. It’s less about experimentation and more about the subtle social flirt of suggestion - I have a rather sensitive palate when it comes to alcohol. But I surrender to the moment, always asking them to craft something they think I’d enjoy. A first impression translated into a drink.

I ended up with red wine. I always prefer white.

It was nothing like what I had loved before, but that was the fun part. Entirely unfamiliar. And I knew this wasn’t incidental. Twenty years of being one way. Now here’s to the twenty-first of becoming another. Cheers!