25

Every year it's the same. I get really excited about my birthday: tell everybody, plan outfits, dream of shoes (possibly unrelated). The week leading up to it is filled with plans and excitement. Then I wake up on my actual birthday and remember that I don't really like it very much. There is too much pressure, too much build-up and it is invariably an anti-climax. It was the same today. I shuddered awake from a dream in which I was a dinner lady at my old school (which sort of puts on perspective all the worries I had about not having achieved anything yet) and thought, Oh. I am twenty-five today. Huh.

I am going to the pub later on, but celebrating properly on Saturday. Before that, though, I am off to do some Birthday Temping in a Birthday Office, where I will Birthday Sulk until I get to leave. Early. Sorry, Birthday Early (which means really very early).

I must go and put on some Birthday Clothes (which is not the same as a Birthday Suit - that was deemed "inappropriate" by those prudes at the Social Services) and continue to wander around aimlessly until I am twenty-six.