A few years ago I took to writing a special birthday blog in the form of an awards show, but that was when my life was cool and exciting and I was riding high on a wave of P.A.R.T.Y.
Now that I am twenty five (that’s ‘halfway to fifty’, or ‘a quarter of a century’, or even simply ‘old enough to know what to do with your life’ if you’re a cruel and heartless bastard), it’s a much more sedate affair. My whole life’s a much more sedate affair now. So much so that I got really excitable and hyperactive after loads of diet coke on my birthday night out last Friday, and then went away with my parents to a town full of bookshops to celebrate at the weekend. It’s actually enough to make you weep, although having said that, I did have a rather fantastic fillet of venison at the hotel on Friday and asked the waiter to proposition the chef for me. Who says older is wiser?
I was going to round the weekend off nicely with a Red Deer Club gig at the Cross Street Chapel last night, but even if the snow hadn’t stranded Valgeir Sigurðsson in London, and I hadn’t spent all my money on books, I probably would have still been too knackered to go. That’s it folks, it’s only beef paste sandwiches and stairlifts for me from now on. I even went to see Mary Poppins on Thursday - and REALLY ENJOYED IT. It’s frightening. I used to be aloof and cynical about things, now I chim-chiminey-cheroo my way to the bus stop and whine when I have to stand.
I used to say that everyone should be put down on their fifty-fifth birthday unless they can walk at a sensible pace and send a text message unaided, but I reckon twenty-five is more appropriate. I’m getting my eyes tested later. Perhaps I should let the optician make the life-or-death call.
“My prescription’s gone up by how much?! Seriously eye-doctor-man, what would you recommend? Intravenus Shipman Death Serum?”
“Right arm or left?”
Let’s look again at the evidence again:
Mary Poppins (very good).
Too much diet coke.
Richard Booth’s Bookshop in Hay, the largest secondhand bookshop in the world.
If I hadn’t had such a wonderful time, loading up with dusty paperbacks and getting high on additives, I might tell the optician just go straight for the lethal injection.