Unhappy Birthday

So we have made it to November. Guy Fawkes be burnin', winter coats hang on the closest peg to the door, Christmas lights flicker on the high street and it’s the month of ...my birthday. My *cough cough* 24th birthday. How did I get so old, so soon?

When I was younger, (ahh those were the days!) I had this big life plan. I dreamt that by the time I reached 24, I would be living in some swanky pad in Richmond, married to the most gorgeous specimen of a man and have at least one sprog, and ideally up the duff with another. Disappointedly, I am none of the above. My life at the moment reads a lot different to how I had hoped it would currently be. I am still living at home, with my mother (in Stoneleigh, not Richmond), I am very much single, and unfortunately diamonds have not even come close to reaching my marital finger. Finally, I am most definitely, 100% not pregnant. – Well, at least I hope I'm not!? That would be a cruel joke, Angel Gabriel.

I think I have reached that dreaded stage in life where I no longer look forward to my birthday. I did not want this time to come, but its too late, the days are whizzing by and my Freedom Pass is another sleep closer. I simply do not want to turn 24! Okay, maybe there are some benefits to growing older. Sure, my car insurance with go down as I go up in age, in a hostage situation, it would be likely that I would be released first, and great, I can legally drive in Europe now. But even taking all benefits into consideration, 24 is still 6 years to 30, almost a quarter of a century gone, and (oh no) nearly half way to 50!

Yep, I have sadly turned into one of those people who no longer get excited about their birthdays. My wish list clearly demonstrates my lack of enthusiasm. This year I am asking for: (don't worry, you'll only need a postage stamp to scribble this lot down, Mum) new bathroom towels and bumper packs of tights and socks. How boring, maybe I am boring? Maybe this is why I am still childless, single and the only daughter left living at home with my mother.

As of yet, no plans have been confirmed for the dreaded day. I’m sure it will involve some sort of wild night, unintentionally playing half-woman, half-vodka, wearing my bank card out until it’s paper thin and attempting to prevent toppling over in my heels.

In an ideal world, I’d quite happily celebrate by sitting in with a pack of Opal Fruits, a nice mug of mint tea and moan about the rising price of petrol.

Maybe next year...

Natalie x