The final countdown

Posted by Lucy Robinson at 22:07 on 15 Mar 2010

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I turn thirty on Thursday.

I should be drinking cocktails for breakfast. I should be dancing at warehouse raves. I should be attending wild orgies in country mansions and taking hallucinogenic drugs. I should be booking flights to Hawaii on an impulse and streaking naked across Trafalgar Square.

I should be being wild!

I am not being wild. I am being the antithesis of wild.

I have turned into a hermit. I am working round the clock. I have a deathly pallor and am subsisting on junk food. I have the social skills of a ferret's bottom.

It was my best friend's 30th on Saturday night. (Happy Birthday, dear Lola!) I went out and actually drank alcohol for the first time in weeks. I discovered quickly that I have lost all conversational ability and then towards the end of the night found myself making up for it by engaging in crazed dancing. I hit that dancefloor HARD, let me tell you.  Literally as well as metaphorically, as it turns out: at around 2.45am I managed to slip and fall into the side splits. Subsequently I feel like I have broken both hips and rendered myself infertile.  I am walking bow-legged as if I spent the weekend having rampant sex. Oh, the irony. Quite frankly, I should not have been allowed out.

And I'm worried that my party on Saturday will be more than I can handle. It'll be the first weekend in as long as I can remember that I will not be working and I fear that I will behave like a total moron. All the people I love most in one place? Alcohol? Me? Bad combo, my friend, bad combo! As any of my friends would attest, I have a remarkable ability start yelling "I LOVE YOU SO MUCH" at my chums after little more than half a glass of wine. Saturday - on which some seventy of them will be gathered around me - is going to be ridiculous. I only hope there is not a vicar present because otherwise I might end up trying to marry them all.

Oh and on that subject, I am in love with the man who owns the venue.

When I say in love, I don't mean I just think he's hot and would like to give him one. I mean, I actually love him. I would like to have children with him, even though I don't even want children. Whenever I go there to finalise arrangements he completely ignores me and hands me over to his manager but I don't care, I LOVE HIM. He is how all men should look.

Anyway, this is the most rambly, pointless blog in the world and I need to get back to work. As ever I apologise for the lack of dates; I know you like it when I go on those. There is a vague situation happening online but the problem is I don't actually have time to meet anyone at the moment so please bear with me.

I thank you. X

PS. About the Geri Halliwell picture. There's no good reason for it to be there; I just entered "Thirty" into Marie Claire's image repository and this picture came up. It made me laugh.

Again, bear with me...

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