Twenteen.

Ah, yes. My day of birth is drawing to a close, and it really is true that birthdays are considerably less exciting the older you grow. I remember my 10th birthday, driving Emma to distraction through my constant repetition of 'THE BIG ONE OOO' and the promise of a new bike. 

Now entering my twenties, I'm perfectly happy with a bottle of Cava and a glutinous spate of over-eating. It has also frightened me, as it has now actually occurred to me that this time next year, I will need to be ready to assume my role as a valuable contributor to society - a notion that scares me to my wits' end. Indeed, I realised I took one small step towards the role of true 'adult' by organising, cooking and hosting my own dinner party. The fact it was a great success, with no dramas involving burnt lamb or undercooked brownies, was more of a shock to my mother than to myself. And why I chose to host my own dinner party, and all the stress that goes with it, instead of booking a restaurant and letting them take the reigns, is beyond me. I guess its because it is my way of showing my deep affection for my friends, and my brain has chosen to express this by listening to the overriding urge to over-feed them all. As far as I know, no one has died, yet. 

And even though my dinner party was a great success, the rest of my life, and my future for that matter, still hang precariously in the balance of my indecision. In another twenty years, I might just be hosting another dinner party, of a very different nature..more to do with impressing colleagues than celebrating life with carefree abandon with my dear friends..dear God!