Getting old stinks. In 2 days time, "I'm the oldest I've ever been". I like to say this every year on my birthday and it's become a little tradition of mine. Or a shit catchphrase if you will. My friend even painted me a picture once with this phrase on. Black type on a yellow background. It's lovely. No one had ever painted me a picture before and no one else has since, so I think this would definitely be something to save if Hackney suffered a flood of biblical proportions.
I've never really been that bothered about getting older before and actually quite liked it. Having spent a large part of my life being asked for ID I used to enjoy being asked if I was old enough to purchase a ten pack of growlers so I could respond with a cheery, "Why, yes my good woman, I'm 34..". However, I haven't been asked to prove my age in over a year now so its sad to know those days are definitely behind me. Its so sad in fact last night I cried onto The Wig and begged him not to put me in an old peoples home. (I am blaming wine for this). But the thought of getting old is really disturbing me at the moment for some reason. Time is passing by so quickly its extremely distressing and whilst there are lots of things that I have done in my life so far, there is a ton of stuff I haven't done yet, like swum with a dolphin or been to a chiropodist.
So, there is to be no big boozy party this year which is the first time in 18 years that I haven't celebrated. Yikes. Even writing the "first time in 18 years" is giving me a hot flush. Where is my life going?! There will be no table football party, no Elton John Fancy dress, no East End Quiz party where my friend turned up with a picture of me on her t-shirt that took me 2 hours to notice, no Karaoke, no dancing, just a quiet night with The Wig and a herbal tea. Dear God.