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Happy birthday to me

February 12, 2009

Today is my birthday. I am 34 years old.

Last night I dreamt that the house (not my current flat, but the house I grew up in) was infested with wasps. Most of them were dead, lying on the carpet, but every so often I’d lift up an object and a cloud of live wasps would emerge. Fortunately, I was armed with a vacuum cleaner, and hoovered most of them up.

I awoke in a state of some alarm, hot and confused. Then I remembered it was my birthday and had the awful epiphany that I simply lie around doing nothing, waiting for amazing things to happen, and then get resentful that I’m not rich and famous. This is a normal feeling for me, so I have already shrugged it off. I had a bath.

At the moment, the sun is shining and I’m sitting alone at home. My girlfriend left for work some hours ago. Later on, I have a meeting in The City, and after that is done, I will head over to my mum’s place for an evening meal with family (including my twin sister, who is also celebrating her birthday today, logically enough).

Getting older is a funny business, in that aside from physically looking older, nothing really changes. You don’t particularly mature or grow up. I don’t, anyway.

I remember being about 18 and listening to a song by Sinead O’Connor, in which she sang “How could I possibly know what I wanted, when I was only 21.” And I remember feeling relieved that I wasn’t yet 21 and was therefore excused from knowing what I wanted. And yet, here I am, aged 34, nearer 45 than 21, and I still have very little idea what I want, or even what I enjoy. Oh well.

Talking of ageing, I updated the various pics of me growing up on the about me page on my website. It’s quite sobering.

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