Page 54 of The Gin Lover's Guide to Dating

‘Squirt, you’re a bloody genius!’ Dylan suddenly slams his hand on the table, making me jump.

‘I am?’

‘Yes. You are. Nobody needs to buy it. They just need to read it. Set up a blog online and write about exactly that. People love this shit. If you gain enough followers, you can make a killing from advertising revenue.’

‘What, really?’ I scratch my head. ‘I haven’t the first clue how to go about doing all that.’

‘Good thing I do.’ Dylan looks triumphant. ‘I knew being an admin donkey for a tech start-up would come in handy one day. I work with internet gurus, so I know how it works. A guy on my floor has his own blog and he makes a decent sum on the side.’

‘Really? So, you’ll help me?’

‘Damn sure. We’re gonna get you out of this hole. When’s your next day off?’

‘Tomorrow,’ I confirm. ‘But you’ll be working, surely? We could do it on the weekend, before my shift starts.’

‘No way.’ Dylan shakes his head decisively. ‘Time is ticking down. We can’t afford to lose nearly another week. I’ll get the day off. Start pulling your first blog post together and we’ll get you launched by the end of the day.’

I’m enthused, but overwhelmed by these ideas.

‘But, I don’t know what I’m going to write about yet.’ I suddenly feel panicked. ‘Maybe if we wait a few days, something will come to—’

‘Liv. Stop.’ Dylan silences me. ‘Your confidence is shot, so you’re stalling. I get that. But you just said you need challenge and fulfilment. What could give you more of that than setting up your own money-making operation in the space of a day? Just bloody do it!’

‘I suppose there’s no harm in giving it a try.’ I hesitate slightly. ‘It’s not like it’s going to land me in a worse position than I’m already in.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ Dylan thumps me on the back affectionately. ‘What a productive lunch. Now let’s get the bill.’

Chapter 15

I spend the next morning at my breakfast bar, tapping away at my laptop, trying to craft my very first blog post. At first, I struggle, my mind distracted by a persistent, nagging fear that I’ll fail. This triggers a frustrating and seemingly unbreakable cycle: writing a few sentences, reading and deleting them, then starting again. I curse my clumsy prose, and the loss of the flawless, uninterrupted focus my writing used to display.

While wrestling with my wavering self-belief, I realise that, until I left McArthur Cohen, this was a feeling I haven’t experienced significantly since my childhood. A time when my father muttered daily about how working hard at school was a waste of time; that no matter how hard I tried, I would amount to nothing; that ‘folk like us’ were set up to be nobodies and have nothing. His worldly-wise view was that life was unfair: we were the victims of inequality from a rigged system. This was justification for his violent outbursts, his drinking, every job he lost, every custodial sentence he was handed down.

He did so little to nurture and prepare me for the real world. But it had the opposite effect to what he assumed. I challenged his self-justification, for which he never forgave me. I fought his sense of inevitability. Instead of ignorantly and naively following him and my mum down the road to misery, I made a pact with myself: no matter what the consequences, I would not turn out like my parents. I put my trust in the belief that others had in me – like Dylan and my favourite teacher, Mrs Patterson. Their encouragement made me think I could achieve something. This cost me the last shred of familial bond, but I have never once regretted my decision.

After an hour of self-torture, and no progress on my first blog post, I decide I need a break. I slide off my bar stool, unlock the door to my balcony, and step outside. The cool, blowy air offers a welcome relief from the stifling suffocation of my own mind. For a few minutes, I just lean on the balcony railing, looking out across north-east Edinburgh, breathing the city air deep into my lungs. It’s far from countryside fresh, but it’s invigorating all the same.

As the calming rhythm of my breathing reaches every part of my body, I begin to relax. I bounce a little on the spot in a bid to get my blood – and my motivation – flowing. Thankfully, it has the desired effect. Encouraged by this, my mind begins to shift to lighter thoughts; curiously, a mantra an old university friend used to repeat to herself before exams randomly pops into my head:my only true barrier is myself.

As her words circle in my mind, and I make the connection with my own self-limiting behaviour, I feel the urge to articulate them – quietly.

‘My only true barrier is myself,’ I murmur.

My words, so delicate and fragile, barely even audible, are instantly whisked away by the whipping wind. Realising that it’s unlikely anyone will hear me, I raise my voice slightly.

‘My only true barrier is myself.’

I’ve never been one to buy into this particular brand of self-help, but I’m surprised by the effect chanting these six words aloud, in this specific setting, has on me. It’s like I’ve created a tiny spark within me, and I’m beginning to come alive. I take it up another notch.

‘My only true barrier is myself.’

A single flame bursts from the rising inner glow.

‘My only true barrier is myself.’

My voice is now close to a shout.

‘MY ONLY TRUE BARRIER IS MYSELF.’

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