This coming weekend is my birthday weekend and for it I'm running away to Wales with my boyf and little baby puppy. Puppy is technically 8, so not a puppy at all but he's an only child, so he'll always be my puppy! By midnight on said birthday, on which I will reach the grand old age of 23... yes, 23, and what did I spend my last weekend as a 22 year old doing? Working, and trying to sort my wardrobe out. My wardrobe is like a volcano that everyone thinks is dormant until you try and open the door and a cascade of hangers and sequins and twenty four thousand jumpers you haven't wore for about three years rain down upon you, as if you've angered the wardrobe gods. I should have been out somewhere, teetering around in high heels and sending my mates tipsy text messages, but alas my purse contains only dust and old bus tickets. But I digress. By midnight, I hope to be walking home from the pub down the beach road, doing the Peter Kay dance, then looking at the stars for a bit, pretending to be romantic. The weekend after brings the proper night out, as, although I know even before I speak the words that I'm confirming the fact that I'm aging by about a century never mind a year in this single utterance, town will be too busy this weekend because of the races. But who really wants to wait in a three deep scrum at the bar? Plus you get all those men huddled in grey suits holding pints in one hand and searching for a passing ass to grab with the other. Note to all bum-pinchers: it's not big and it's not clever!
All this and I've no credit on my phone! This seems a mere trifling annoyance in itself, but what can I do in the meanwhile when I'm in the middle of writing my essay and my brain refuses to construct further sentences until I've texted my good friend Guillermo Silverknife? (I've started letting my friends choose their own aliases, BIG mistake!) Update my blog, obviously!
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