So I turned 30 this week.
I am now at an age which I never, when I was young, imagined being. Other than that and a distressing inability to read without my glasses, I don’t feel much different. Anyway, I’ve been celebrating this week.
Last weekend I was in Wales to do the family thing. It was great to see all my family, including a fair few of my cousins and my niece (who is now walking). There were also many incredible gifts, including an awesome chess set that my family had clubbed together to buy, a very cool book of the day I was born from my sister (who is in Oz) and a bunch of other, equally cool, stuff.
On my actual birthday I had my customary day off and pretty much did whatever I wanted: got up late, wrote, read, went to the cinema, hung out with G, the usual. And this weekend I am off with friends (many of whom I have known half my life) for a bloody good knees up.
I have survived three decades, I am healthy, I have a large closeknit family, good friends and G.
I am very lucky.