Tomorrow is my birthday.
Tomorrow I add a whole other year to the tally of ones I have spent on earth already. The great countdown in the sky is heaving another few grains of sand onto an already quite worryingly heaped pile of sand. There are clocks ticking loudly, and most of them have a pendulum shaped inexplicably like a scythe. *shudders*
So what does one do when one is 48 years old?
Do 48-year-olds choose to weep and lament lost youth? Our own, or the fact that there isn't a snowflakes chance in a slow cooker that Tom Daley will ever look in our direction even once, never mind twice? Do we finally recognise our chances of becoming the new a) Kate Moss b)Rhianna c) Jennifer Aniston or d) the Queen are probably quite slim now? Do we give up and go gently into the dark night of middle-age? Do we become one of the invisible women whose voice is only heard in the supermarket consumer surveys?
Do. We. Fuck!
I, for one, am going to count my blessings and thank all gods extant I don't have to gyrate scantily dressed in a downpour or get dumped by Brad Pitt to make a living. Or at least not anymore. I'm going to raise a hand and shake a fist at the world and give the supermarkets a good kick in the bottom shelf while I'm at it. Then I'm going to go out and get pissed on gin.
Tomorrow is my birthday and I will be 48 years old.
Do NOT buy me slippers, a twin-set or American tan tights.
*Grows old disgracefully*