40 – meh

Last week, I turned 40. It’s something I’d been trying to put off, but 40 marched up to me anyway, knocked the ice-cream out of my hand, called me bumface and wrote ‘OLD’ on my forehead in black marker pen before mooning and confiscating my Topshop card. Turns out, no matter how fantastic you are at procrastinating, you can’t shove horrid birthdays to the bottom of the to do list.

I even tried running away from my birthday, to Spain, but that didn’t work. It just happened an hour earlier, and on a Monday too, thanks to this year being a leap year. Mega. I used to enjoy my birthday but this one had felt like a long-standing root canal appointment. My brain kept scrambling to find ways to get out of it as it loomed ever closer, the jackbooted march of time growing louder and louder. Nooooooo!

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