I Will Never Grow Oranges

I am a 17 year old from sunny England. At my age, apart from girls and English coursework, the most discussed thing is the future. Yes, to our young, idealistic minds , the future offers great hope and great excitement. The notion that I can be anything I like fills my heart with anticipation. I've been told that the world is at my feet, my life is what I choose to make of it. So what will I be? Fireman? Astronaut? Monster hunter?
In reality, however, I have no idea what I want to do. I know that as I get older options will narrow, choices will be reluctantly made and inevitably I will become a mindless office drone who's only relief is increasingly soul numbing Saturday night television. I shall choke to death on a diet of Vernon Kay fronted, ill thought out gameshows. That's no life.
How do I tell my Career Advisor that my ambition doesn't lie in extortionate further education or irksome employment but in a life full of meaning, cherished memories and friends. I don't want to drive my Toyota Depression company car to the same grey destination for the majority of my life. I want to live in Spain and read books and write better books and learn the guitar and grow oranges.
Undoubtedly, I won't live this simple dream. The poisonous 'for your own good' rhetoric will corrupt me with sense and I will have 2.4 children and live adaquetly. And not go to Spain.