Disconnected ramblings from an elderly writer

I’ve been appalling about writing recently – and this time I can’t blame Facebook. Almost too much has happened of significance and now I’ve started to feel like when I did finally write something it would have to be momentous, epic and very, very time-consuming.

However, I’d rather get it all out of the way now – so here goes. I turned 30. I went to Bath with my friends for a wonderful day out. I had a party that involved a lot of silly costumes. Actually, that’s about it. There’s enough material there for reams of intricate detail, but when it’s boiled down to the essence, that’s really the sum of it. Fabric, chemistry and maths references in that last sentence: not so much a mixed metaphor as evidence of a truly unruly mind.

Now that I’m 30, am I different? Not massively. Although I’m still verging on massive. Sadly the dawn of a new decade didn’t herald a dramatic shift in my eating habits. They say that as you get older your appetite lessens but I have yet to see evidence of this phenomenon – and I can’t say that my parents seem to be following the trend either. An overweight future awaits. And the 'they' of 'they say' are clearly as accurate as the 'they' who say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. 'They' are clearly evil liars who want to bring down the world by predicting joyous future events and then laughing in glee at our shocked disappointment.

What else is news?
The sun is shining.
Awful things are in the papers.
Foot and mouth hasn’t spread.
I am obsessed with Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black.
(That’s a song, Dad.)
I loved Atonement by Ian McEwan.
Now I’m reading The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James.
It’s really good too.
I had a tuna salad for lunch.
Now I want a Twix.
I may or may not succumb.

Last night, Simon did a big burp. There followed this exchange:

Me: Urgh, that’s disgusting.
Simon: Well, you were whistling.

This retort from Simon surprised me somewhat, but he said it with a confidence that suggested that the rationale behind his statement should be self-evident. To Simon, on the Irritation Scale, whistling = burp. To me, whistling = friendly pat. We’re all different aren’t we?

I’m not trying to claim that I never burp, because I definitely do. But I wouldn’t excuse it on the basis that it was justified because some hapless bystander happened to be whistling. Quite besides the point that such ‘eye for an eye’ behaviour is clearly unworkable in society, you have to wonder what the world’s coming to when a tuneless release of air is deemed to be sufficient penalty for… a tuneless release of air. Oh. Maybe he’s got a point. Flaps.

News update: while writing this, I sacrificed the Twix idea and ate a (smaller and cheaper) Penguin. For my American readers, a Penguin is a tasty chocolate-covered biscuit snack. Not a flightless bird. I gave up eating them after Happy Feet.