So, this weekend was the last two days of the thirty-second year of my life. On Friday evening, I spent a very wonderful evening in Shoreditch, drinking Moroccan mint tea, eating curry and freaking myself out with ghost stories at two in the morning. Saturday, I spent my day interpreting at the zoo, standing in with the penguins while they were fed and stroking a skunk in a tipi. In the evening, I went to Duckie and watched Griff win a bump and grind contest with a woman who kicked him squarely in the side of the head and split his scalp with her stiletto heel.
As it was my birthday party, I decided to drive, so I wasn't going to be bladdered by the time I got home. Instead, I gave a lift to a worse for wear friend who kept asking if we could tell he was fucked on drugs. Oh, but we could. Today, I went for a picnic in the park as a seven foot tall bunny, snapped my friend's neck and broke Jonathan's knee.
Now, I'm thirty three. What's next?