tick, tock, tick, tock

So this year, I shall be thirty. As shall a number of my dearest friends. And you know what? I couldn't give a damn. Having a baby ages one way more than any numbers. I've felt thirty+ for a good year and a half, and, if truth be told, my lifestyle has been more "thirties" than "flirties" since I moved to Iceland and got a grown up job, the result of which was that every time I found myself in the pub (which was rare, as I needed to see my bank manager in advance every time), I also found a bunch of students who all wanted to discuss work. And, well, singing I will survive on top of a table is not something you want them to remember at 8am on Monday morning. Not that I would ever do that. Anymore. DVDs and cake, quite enough excitement for me these days.

How come birthdays and Christmas (for me, fused together but the unfortunate timing of my parents' debauchery) seem to occur every couple of months?

I watched a documentary on Take That the other day. (I can feel your virtual envy cascading over the web as you read of my exciting life) One of them was quoted as saying he saw the writing on the wall when the flat chested 13 yearolds had turned into big bosomed 18 yearolds. Hell, we've all got kids now! Even half of them! Hubby says Robbie is the new Cliff Richard.

Getting older is easy. Easier than dying, anyway. Raising kids, now that's what creates the wrinkles.