can you still have any famous last words if you’re somebody nobody knows;

This is from my notebook, so please forgive the muddled tenses.

Saturday lunchtime, on the train to Largs. I’ve been making this journey since 2005; sometimes with company and with varying levels of frequency. That first time it was April I think, and the sea was grey, and I took photos of tulips and sipped from a cappuccino on which somebody had sketched a heart in the foam. Later I stood in the rain, listening to “Tranatlanticism” and watching the ferry slowly leave. And I scribbled something probably very similar to this into a leather-bound notebook, because really all these visits blend into each other and – no matter how much I like to kid myself otherwise – the circumstances of my arrival are usually the same.

But that wasn’t my first visit to this beachfront town, although I don’t remember much about the ones before. There was a photograph of the wee ones with my grandmother by the fireplace in Grandad’s old flat, and I know it was taken in the old Nardini’s cafe and we were so rarely apart in those days that of course I must have been there too. I have a sense of being too little for an ice-cream sundae with a sparkler and scoops and scoops of flavours and toppings, which is why I always order one when I visit now even though I know I’m never going to finish it. I wish I had a photographic memory or that I had written these things through my childhood because my memory is so sketchy. My Grandma died when I was five, and I remember only snapshots: miniature Mars Bars, a pink jacket, the smell of her perfume, that she had a lovely smile. It’s why I ruthlessly document everything now, in notebooks and photographs and on the social networking websites that have replaced the scraps of paper that you reach for from your dreams before it all fades away. I’m terrified of losing what’s supposed to be mine; so terrified I rarely just stop to take stock.

I’m not sure what it is that so attracts me, the archetypal city girl, to this place. I prefer it in the rain, the pebbled beach mostly empty and the Atlantic Ocean the colour of slate. I like the first peek of ocean from the window of the train, particularly when a watery beam of sunlight hits its target through thick cloud cover. I suspect I should be drawing comparisons between the ocean’s wild, unrelenting nature and my own but I don’t think those are true. I just feel freer here, free enough to breathe more deeply and put oft-blocked thoughts to paper. I suppose it’s just far away from home.

There was one occasion when I visited and I was in a walking mood (in fact, it was during the currency of this very blog), so I thought I’d walk from Largs to Fairlie, the next town over. I thought it would be easy because the train tracks, for the most part, follow the path of the ocean and the journey by rail takes less than five minutes. When the footpath disappeared into the ocean I realised I’d seriously misjudged, so when I waded out and discovered I was trespassing on the property of the Ministry of Defence it was almost funny. I made it into the next town about an hour and a half later, exhausted but a little proud because I was always the timid one who was scared of climbing and jumping and the other dirty pursuits of children.

I wonder sometimes what people think when they see me scribbling in cafes. Today it’s probably not very much: I have my big camera around my neck and my hair is just long enough to force into some rudimentary pigtail, so I probably look like a student. I ordered a pizza toastie which is an incredible invention, all gooey mozzarella and tomato base between two slices of toast. It’s too messy to pick up and eat with my fingers, which annoys me less than it would normally.

I used to be able to look people in the eye and say, proudly, that I was a journalist but I’m not entirely sure what I am anymore and the “credit crunch” seems to have put paid to the possibility of anything I want to be. Sometimes I’m happy enough to sit tight and be grateful for what I have, but more often than not these days I feel a deep-rooted discontent. I suspect it’s got something to do with being three years away from the oldest I’ve ever imagined myself being and it colours my experience, even though I know it shouldn’t. I tell myself I have to watch that movie, because I’ll be dead soon, or I have to take a trip, because I’ll be dead soon, and that every time I’m tired or sore or find myself staring into space I’m wasting time because… well, you get the picture. I still feel as if the only thing I want to do is write. I think I’d like to be a travel writer since I couldn’t support myself on music journalism, but it all comes out more like Kerouac than The Holiday Show and I’d rather write in this blog than have people pay me for it. Sometimes I wonder if that, too, was more fun when it was just me: I never expected to be universally liked, but ten years is a long time to be doing anything and I’m a little set in my ways.

The waiter asked me if I had exams coming up when he brought me my strawberry sundae. It was topped with whipped cream, a sparkler and a paper butterfly. At the next table, a little girl in a pink dress stares at me with big, wide eyes.

I want to learn to drive. I want a little car, where I can pick the music, but I don’t ever want to stop taking trains. I think half my motivation is the fact that I’ve failed my test five times, but I’ve renewed my provisional licence and I’m going to book some lessons soon. They’re so much more expensive than they were six years ago, when I last got behind the wheel. I’m a middling photographer, and I’d like to take some classes. These things should keep me occupied, at least until I can afford another Masters degree. I’d like to better myself, gain some real-world skills, and I think I’ve come about as far as I can on my own. I’m always a work in progress, although I’d better than I think I am. I can hold a conversation and I suppose I’m fairly interesting, even if I always seem to be telling these same stories.