I think, by any measure, 30 should mean a certain degree of maturity. I’ve got three days to achieve it and so far the signs aren’t great. As time goes by I get more resentful of the responsibilities and constraints of age rather than less. The sun is shining in a clear blue sky and I should be outside skipping through meadows instead of staring at a screen, avoiding my timesheet and the list of tasks I should complete today.
People keep asking what I’m going to do to celebrate, but they don’t believe it when I tell them – I’m not joking: I’m taking the day off so that I can lie in bed, eat (cheese, pork pies, cake and chocolates) and drink (tea, coffee, champagne, microbrews and red wine); read (a good thumping novel) and listen to music (TA bought me a Regina Spektor CD, which is pretty fantastic). I might squeeze in some DVD watching and, if Skye obliges, I might have some puppy play too.
I started as I mean to go on by having friends over at the weekend for copious quantities of cheese and by breakfasting on Scoobydoo cake (thanks A and J!). TA claims I’m milking it and asks how I can justify a “birth week”. But he should know better. After nearly six years together, he should know that I’m never good at celebrating my continued existence and require as many opiates as possible to maintain the cheerful demeanour that everyone expects. The pressure has already started with TA wanting me to open presents in advance. Has anyone got a drink? I’d quite like to wake up in a week’s time, or never.