30

On the 8th of June, I turned 30. 30. That was it. I think until you have children, you still expect to be one. You're still expecting to be seated at the 'kids' table' so the grown ups can have eat their steak in peace. You're still expecting liftmen to call you "baby" and air hostesses to give you a lollipop.



And then you're thinking "Ok I'm 30 and I should not be eating lollipops." But you still want to walk only on the joints in the floor tiles, you still want to ask someone if they want something and then say "keep wanting!" when they say yes and you still do the TV cops shoot and roll with two fingers and you're always up for a water fight in office.



And I've done all the expected in the run up to turning 30. I told Father A I wanted a diamond, I'm on a weight loss programme that is totally kicking my ass, I've been getting drunk, I've been standing on the table at a night club and dancing, I've been hanging out with younger people and giving them lectures, I've been moisturising my boobs in an upward direction, I've been wondering what I've achieved in life so far and where I am in my career. I've had existential issues and nightmares, epiphanies and salad. Cod liver oil, pedicures and ambition.



And on 8th June '09... I still wanted to eat cake for breakfast, and pretend I'm going to kiss Father A and then lick his cheek. So yes. 30 feels great. And despite what they tell you, nothing is sagging yet. So here it is. A picture taken a week before my 30th birthday with a colleague and friend who doesn't mind her picture being up on the net to be morphed and used for porn.



30. It's lovely. Wish you were here.