I am 23. Looking forward to work today actually. Will hit the gym first and then scoot over to the office.
Things have been great since we managed to get rid of the Harpie from Hell Boss, Lesley (*you know who you are bully-breeches. With the bottle-blonde barnet and your shovel loads of slap. You made our lives hell, you crabby old tart, you.*)
Looks like I’m up for a bit of a promotion, actually. So me and the rest of the team will probably head off to the pub for a few swift ones, come the lunch hour.
Yep. Life is good. This weekend I’m planning to have some mega long-lie ins. And lots of sex with whoever takes my fancy. So long as they buy me plenty of Black Russians and prefers Camel Lights to Benson&Hedges. That’s the great thing about not living at home anymore. The sex and the ciggies (hopefully Mum isn’t reading this. Highly unlikely though as she has a slightly different sense of humour to me.)
So, yes. Going to be a Top Day as we say in Manchester. And even better actually because…hang on. Yeah! It’s my birthday today! Cool! Must wake up properly now and….I’m going to be, what – 24?
A noise from outside my bedroom. A sort of a screeching. Sounds like this:
“Get away from me, you evil little beast! I hate you! Don’t kick me whilst you’re trying to have a poo on the toilet! I’ll whack you on the head with my Garfield book! I will! You know I will! ”
Oh God no. No. Please tell me that this isn’t true.
Adrenalin courses through my veins. The opposite of the nightmare. When you wake up, heart-a-pounding with utter relief. Yes, this is the flip side of it all. Now my blood is pumping with the shock of the dream-become a living terror.
I am not going to be 24. No. Far from it.
My shoulder aches terribly where the chiropracter stomped on it yesterday. I have to get up and stop the toilet-tackling going on next door. My husband is stirring next to me, probably hoping for a bit of birthday-nookie (think he’s gotten our respective birthday pressies mixed up, folks.)
I am old. I am old. I *literally* just aged 17 years in the last 10 seconds.
Really, totally, bloody unfair.
And now 5 year old trundles in (bottom wiped, hopefully) bearing a ‘Happy Birthday Mummy! Here’s your pwesent! I just wrapped it in a towel, hope that’s ok! It’s a very exciting pwesent!”
I shuffle up the bed a bit. Older child is sobbing because it is NOT her birthday and SHE wanted to bring the presents to me.
“Thanks sweetie – what is this exciting present then?”
“See! Its one of Daddy’s stinkiest socks that I just got out from the bottom of the laundry basket! I can get you his underpants if you want…”
Ah well. Who’d choose to be 24 anymore, anyway?