Birthday

Thursday was my twenty-eighth birthday. The thought struck me almost as soon as the alarm clock woke me. It's now a full decade since I turned eighteen – a diffident, poorly coiffured and over-sensitive young thing. A lot's happened to me in ten years. In some ways, I've changed, grown up. I'm not a young thing any more, certainly.

This was clearly an apposite time to take stock, to reflect on the way of things. Instead, I went to the pub, drank too much beer and yesterday celebrated being in my late twenties with a manageable, but staunchly persistent headache.

This sunny Saturday morning, I'm not too concerned about taking another step to the intimidating "thirty". Twenty-eight actually has a nice ring to it. For a start, my age is now both a perfect number and a magic number. But that's not very interesting, really.

I did think of a bad running joke last week.
Why did the woman go running when she lost her keys?
To jogger memory.

I'm going on the treadmill now. I may be some time.