It’s my birthday today. 30! Didn’t tell work. Took the day off. Don’t need a shitty Tesco card with thirty versions of “All the best!” from people I wouldn’t recognise outside the office.
Thought about doing something profound to celebrate. Writing a poem. Buying a motorbike. Going to Thailand to find myself. But I’m British, so I had breakfast at Wetherspoons. It was nice enough. Eggs weren’t great. Cold. Rubbery. And they ruined it with fucking beans. Shite, really. But it soaked up the hangover.
Went into town after and bought a new pair of jeans. Levi’s. Saw a denim shirt with red tassels that looked cool, so I got that too. Didn’t try them on. Don’t like how I look in shop mirrors. Probably the overhead lighting. It casts a lot of shadow.
Stopped for a quick pint in my local on the way back. The King. Stayed for seven more than intended. I thought it was two for one, but it wasn’t. Just got home. Feeling wobbly.
Tried on the new clothes. Double denim, you sexy bastard. Definitely thirty now.
Bollocks, it’s half two. How did that happen? It’s not my birthday any more. Better go to bed. And set an alarm.
Jolon. xxx.
One never really does the job, does it? All that extra time left over til last orders and all…
“Stopped for a quick pint in my local on the way back. The King. Stayed for seven more than intended.”
We all know it won't just be one before we even decide to go to the pub