Birthday time

I am far too excited about the fact it is my birthday, but look at this lovely tat my friends gave me! (by "tat" I do not mean anything pejorative obviously, only pretty frippery; "tatty" is another thing altogether). My housemate also gave me a mini bonsai kit, I am guessing it is a slight comment on my gardening skills, after the tomato plant went a nuclear shade of yellow, and the sweetpeas turned into stringy, well, string.

I am not thinking about the fact that I am 25, as long as my mother doesn't start her 'I was married by your age' (and my nan her 'I had two kids by your age') commentary. Eek. Anyway who cares, someone has just bought me a chocolate cake from M&S no less, everyone knows they are anti-aging.

Girl power

This week I have been mostly been listening to this - a CD I made for one of my best friends when we were both about 17 and indulging in totally unsuitable crushes (hence the inclusion of George Michael's frankly quite disturbing 'Father Figure'). Actually 'indulging' is both the right and wrong word - I was going to change it for the more stressful-sounding 'embroiled', but then I think we both quite liked being pursued by very Wrong sorts.
Anyway, I digress. The CDs were intended to be an ironic take on those godawful 'Woman' CDs and included such hits as 'Respect' and 'I'm Every Woman', and the more idiosyncratic 'Chains' by Tina Arena. I suppose I am thinking of it now because three of my best pals came to visit over the weekend for my birthday, and it was just so great hanging out with girls who have stood by me through various dramas since maths lessons.

Forgive me for my introspective mood at the moment, a lady can't approach her quarter-century without thinking about scary things such as Where Is It All Going? and What Does It Mean? I will be buying a sports car next.

Speaking of age, how old do I sound making CDs for people as opposed to iTunes playlists. Never mind that the original versions of these CDs were on tape...

Thoughts

There is a storm brewing somewhere over the Channel. Dark clouds are roiling, and the seagulls are swerving and screaming as the wind gets up. Earlier I sat and put my feet in the sea, letting the chill water scour away London heat and grime. I started reading The Welsh Girl by Peter Ho Davies recently, which features the D-Day landings. It was a sobering thought, as I dabbled my feet and barbecues smoked, that they took place in this unremarkable stretch of grey water.

I have neglected a lot of things recently, particularly my dancing and knitting and everything else that makes me feel like 'me', but hopefully I will be getting back into it all again. I will be heading 'home' in a few days, and although when I say 'home' I mean one of the various houses my mum or dad or I have lived in since I was 18, it will be comforting to return to the place I grew up, if only to be glad I don't live there any more.

Sorry

I have been away for a while, and very amiss with my blog posting. There have been exciting developments at work, and emotional rollercoasters at home, so to chat about my usual fluff of kittens and knitting feels a little superfluous to say the least. I'll be back soon x

Getting on a bit

I possibly shouldn't be writing this now, as a) it is too early for anyone to be awake on a Saturday b) my heart is still manically skating on the sugar of last night's wine intake and c) I have already started the guilty putting-washing-on process that usually indicates a hangover is brewing further round the corner.

But I am in a state of total bewilderment - do people of a certain age (and I mean very close to 25 and upwards) not go 'out' any more? My friend and I put on our frocks and headed to an indie club in Brighton last night. I haven't been out anywhere that doesn't involve lindy and dancing with people old enough (at least) to be my father for ages so it was all a bit exciting. But, oh God, everyone was about 17 with rounded, happy drunken little faces. We didn't know the music. We weren't wearing skinny jeans. We weren't snogging with abandon. Plus the only time we were spoken to was by two chaps whose opening gambits were 'How old are you?'. Were our faces that haggard? (Albeit, the second one followed this up with 'Can I kiss you?' so that at least was comforting). Am I condemned, Cinderella-esque, to be heading home before midnight from now on?

It was all a bit of a contrast to certain other social situations over the past few weeks, when I felt out of place in a different way and wanted, like Cassandra in I Capture the Castle, to be forty, wearing black and pearls.

I'm going to stop writing now, I really need to eat something.

Babies

Some lovely green images. I know I intended to put up some pictures from the Rockabilly Rave but I have secret plans for those, which I don't want to jinx by floozying them round on the internet.

So, instead here is a picture of my tomato plant (look! look! babies!) and of the lovely bookmark my friend bought me on the spur of the moment. I love the quote, but just as much love Virginia's mournful little face. Perhaps she is not enjoying the indignity of having her head on a bookmark.

Had a very odd weekend so far, which has included rather guiltily reading a Joanna Trollope in about a day and a half, getting embarrassingly burnt in yesterday's sunshine, and having tea and cinnamon toast with my aforementioned friend and being very shouty about (as usual) feminism, body image and Emily Bronte. I feel a little manically creative now, I am not sure if that is preferable to feeling impotent and self-doubting. I really must STOP drinking caffeinated tea.

Lost and found

So, I am back from Glastonbury. Having spent the previous weekend in the 1950s, and this last one in a field, I am feeling more than a little disorientated as I look out from my window and see high-rise buildings, chimney pots and the elegant necks of cranes. I had written a long blog entry on the back of the Observer on Sunday, but then rather fittingly burnt it in an attempt to keep warm whilst sitting near the Stone Circle at 2.30am yesterday morning.
I seem to remember musing about the lifestyles Glasto not only encompasses but seems to suggest are actually possible, and toying with the idea of being a rock chick banging a tambourine in a band, a hippy mother sitting with her children under a tent hung with lanterns and flowers, or one of the hipster types who seem to emerge from the mud bespoiling their (non-skinny, and held together with duct tape) jeans. The latter rather uncannily tied in with the latest chapter of the Bohemian book I have previously enthused about, which describes the Bohemian's rejection of bourgeois routines of house-cleaning and personal hygiene for dirt and creativity (apparently one creates the other). However I gave up at least on this option, as I found myself reading said book with a torch alone in my tent on Saturday night, listening to the revellers outside and feeling very, very uncool.

Still, I am back, with Jay-Z (brilliant) still ringing in my ears, mud under my fingernails and a massive inexplicable bruise on my thigh. The tomato plant has grown to the size of a small tree and has little yellow flowers. I am feeling creative and it is beautifully sunny outside. The real world isn't too bad.