Tomorrow it will be my birthday but I don’t really want it to be my birthday. I’ve decided I don’t like birthdays any more. I’ve joined the cantankerous and boring club. The rose tinted specs are well and truly off. There’s a few reasons why I don’t want my birthday or any birthday for that fact. First I am fed up of thinking up what I want …there isn’t anything I want. The children have been asking what I want and I am exhausted from all the thinking. Then everyone asking what I am going to do for my birthday and when I say nothing I have to listen to them prattle on how I have to do something nice for my birthday. Fish finger sarnies and hot chocolate and that’s my lot.
Another reason is that I dislike the number 43. Its an odd number and rather ugly looking too. And it also sounds sooo blagh. Without uttering a word it says I’m further away from 40 than I want to be, that I am closer to 45 than 40. It says hanging desperately on to middle age.
Lastly birthdays are no fun any more. There not all pink, sparkly and sugar coated bundles of excitement any more. They are damp slaps in the face that I am no longer the person I use to be.
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