So when I left work on Friday everyone wanted to know what I was going to do for my birthday. The problem was I had no idea.
It wasn’t exactly that I’d forgotten my birthday. I knew it was looming like a great big clock ready to tick on over to the next digit of my ever increasing age. I just hadn't really thought about it. Partly because once you’ve passed 21 somehow a birthday becomes less of a thing to celebrate and more of a thing to cringe about. But also because, with everything that’s been happening health wise in my family recently, making plans of any kind is just a disaster waiting to happen.
Which leads me to the sad realisation that I have become a pessimist.
In the end we didn’t actually do anything, or at least not anything particularly unusual. I spent most of the day writing, concocted a strange new, yet surprisingly tasty, pasta dish from the leftovers in the fridge for lunch and really pushed the boat out for an extravagant dinner at… Subway.