Birthday! Woe, Angst!

So, 25. A quarter of a century. It’s troubled me since the 29th of January 2005, and now it’s here. I didn't think it really deserved celebrating, because I don’t find turning 25 very funny. I noticed wrinkles on my hand the other day. Wrinkles! Granted, I have better skin than my coevals at work, but that’s because they use the sunbeds all the friggin’ time and have drier skin than The Mummy. I remain ghost-coloured, yet I cannae fight the wrinkles. I can’t even apply for a Young Persons Railcard anymore, because I’m not young enough. WOE IS ME. WOE. With a side order of woe.

I should also point out that I was born prematurely by two weeks, so perhaps I can pretend I’m still really 24.

Predictably, I resorted to a spot of retail therapy today, along with a pitiful attempt at baking a carrot cake, a gourmet pizza (Artichokes! Am so cultured, yo) and some risotto, which helped smooth over my woe. Unlike the wrinkles over my knuckles.


Thank you for all your birthday wishes, by the way! I'd crack a smile, but I'm trying to keep my face as inanimate and smooth as possible.