Tomorrow it is my birthday. I've forgotten quite a few times already over the past few days and gone "...huh?" when Paul mentions the party on Saturday. However, I'm not as dense as Paul who has accidentally convinced himself that it is he who is going on holiday on Monday, and is in for a very disappointing morning, silly billy.
I've never been a huge fan of birthdays, to be honest. Other people's are usually great fun: everybody gets a bit pissed, has a good time, the birthday boy or girl has a fab night and doesn't feel awkward or embarrassed at having gathered all their friends together for such a patently self-centred reason, because it's absolutely fair enough, and nobody considers it to be egotistical or presumptious - including me.
When it comes to my own birthdays, however, I've never quite got the hang of this, and always feel.....apologetic at having thrown myself a birthday party. Kind of like I've forced people to reveal their hand and throw their friendship cards down on the table. For this reason, I haven't actually had a birthday party since I was about 7.
This is very silly. I know this, and tomorrow evening I am going to not be such a paranoid idiot, and do the birthday thing, and a lovely time will be had by all. I will eat Jamaican food and not, even once, complain that I am fat. I will meet friends at the pub and not, even for a nano-second, look at their shoes instead of their faces to avoid seeing an imagined look of "When can I go home?".
Most importantly, I will get quite pissed, have a laugh, say some ridiculous things and will not, under any circumstances torture myself for weeks afterwards by constantly thinking "Oh, God! Why did I say [insert drunken comment here] - what a twat!".
This is my pledge as I enter my 25th year. It's a dramatic pledge, I know, and very out of character - check out the reaction of this chipmunk who I told earlier on today:
It's about bloody time I grew up.
At least a little bit. Happy birthday, me :)