I recently read an interview with the wonderful Simon Pegg, in which he said something about his generation being the first to be given an extra 10 years to mess about and figure out what to do with their lives. (I can't give the exact quote as I sensibly recycled the paper said interview was in.)

I always looked forward to this: at 16, I dreamt of being a high-powered, world-famous human rights lawyer, who wrote best-selling novels under a cleverly devised pen name. But before all this began, I would spend my twenties in an utterly decadent fashion, at kooky universities that my favourite celebrities had attended, travelling the world and getting wasted. Me and the BF coined the term '10 year gap year' to describe what would surely be the most outrageous time of our lives.

At this time, I regularly told my younger sister that I was "the epitome of intellect and cool". I'm not entirely sure why this perfectly reasonable statement has since become a family joke. What I do know is this: I'm 22, married, with a sensible job, a sensible overdraft and sensible shoes. I spent my Sunday (with no hangover) doing my laundry, checking my potato crop for slugs, and babysitting for my single mother's single friend so they could go off and discuss the ins and outs of 40-something sexual relations. The unthinkable has happened: my mother has got more of a life than I have.

So far, so depressing, you might think. But it's not. That's the problem. I love being married. I love my sensible job and my sensible overdraft, and especially my sensible shoes. That's why I have them. The question I ask myself then is this: am I terminally sensible? I was decadent til the age of 21 and I don't mind telling you that it was extremely tiring. Now the 10 year gap is a term me and BF use to describe the age difference between our partners and our mothers.

Will my epitaph read "the epitome of intellect and cool" or merely "the epitome of sensible shoe wearing"? Do I have to write angry articles for the Guardian when I could much more easily write angry letters to bank managers?

Have I lost my mojo? And, if so, where would I be able to get a new one?

And, more importantly, how many clubcard points could I get for it?