In my early 20s Thailand was the bounty of the backpacker – I could write a guidebook from the number of tales I’ve listened to, from friends, about elephant sanctuaries, pad thai curry and full moon parties. Yet despite their endless encouragement to follow in their shoestring-budget footsteps I’ve never seen the allure of sleeping in a sweaty shared dormitory – I’ve always doubted whether I’d have the stomach for it.
On finishing university, while the “gappies” jetted off to south-east Asia in earnest, I instead headed to the big smoke – London, to follow the career dreams I’d worked tirelessly to chase.
While my peers were spontaneously flitting between hostels, making friends with international flair and exploring the likes of Chiang Mai in their hiking sandals, I was flat hunting in Zone 3, avoiding eye contact on the tube and making cups of tea for my…
