2011 so far

Birthdays, another day to lie to oneself about turning over new leaves, like the start of the academic year, the beginning of Advent, New Year's Day, the beginning of Lent.

To sum up the end of my thirty-eighth year:

We read:

• A Wedding in December
• Gentlemen and Players
• Sleeping Arrangements
• Twenty-one locks

And are reading:

• Eat, Pray, Love

I signed up for the Marie Curie Swimathon, but have sadly hardly managed to get to the swimming pool so may not turn up.

I had the most disastrous of disastrous interviews (following a truly awful presentation) a week ago today.

There have been the occasional instances of more than five hours consecutive hours of sleep.

The boy has refused to eat many delightful things cooked for him by his mother - although he did finally condescend to eat some of a chicken and apple ball the other week (these took an inordinate amount of time to produce).

I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. The current favourite is Nursery Nurse. Possibly just because I am jealous that I pay people to look after my son whilst I sit at home in front of a stoopid compooter-pooter. But possibly not.

I'd better hurry up and be thirty-something

I'm not really sure what being thirty-something entails, but I'd best find out quick as tomorrow marks the beginning of my last year of that status. It sounds quite indecisive, so the fact that I'm still riddled with all the neuroses (and more) that I had when I was sixteen, is probably OK. But forty sounds terribly grown up. Perhaps an amazing transformation will take place this year, and I'll no longer find myself floundering in between being a child and an adult; then again, pigs may fly (we have one downstairs that actually does).