The real story about an extrovert drowning in a sea of introverts

OK, so this is the real story about my trip to Gladstone’s Library…

Twelve days was too long. A short course or Gladfest would have been better for me.

Twelve days of sleeping in a library felt like I’d inadvertently slipped into a silent retreat with total strangers who didn’t want to be naughty.

Twelve days of trying to strike up conversations with people who really just wanted to read was exhausting.

Twelve days of thinking you’ve found a like-mind only to find they are only there for the day or are B&B and off exploring all day and only going to appear again next breakfast is disheartening.

Twelve days of not having your own books and journals of quotes around you is maddening.

Twelve days of no music (except for the radio in my room – Please Respect Your Neighbours when choosing Volume) made me wish I’d taken headphones for my laptop.

Twelve days of whispering or talking in hushed tones (in the lounge, for heaven’s sake!) was a strain on my vocal chords.

Twelve days of no laughter was depressing.

Twelve days of rubbish church on Sundays was agonising.

Twelve days of not being able to talk about my project or show people pretty pictures was really hard.

Twelve days of not being able to entertain was like being bound and gagged.

Twelve days was too long. Just too long.

Remind me of this next time, will you?

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