Hello Late Twenties, Goodbye Yoof

Today I went for an unprecedented lunchtime trip to Wagamama. Yaki Soba at LUNCHTIME. It’s crazy, it’s maverick, it’s like cleaning the bathroom and THEN having shower.

The reason for such frivolity is due to it being my birthday week. But as I have decided to organise no actual festivities, friends are resorting to taking me for daytime noodles in order to bid farewell to my mid twenties.

For it’s true. As of 4th November, I lose all chance of ever joining the cool ‘27 Club’ that people always bang on about. As of Friday, I will indisputably be in my late twenties. Not that I really want to join the ‘27 Club’ anyway. It’s a bit snobby as far as I can tell, what with the mandatory death and stuff. I bet it hasn’t even got a pool. Shoreditch House has a pool.

So 28 here I come. I am telling everyone I am quite excited about it. I think I actually am. It means I have a handle on what exactly I want from life and the time frame that I will achieve it within. In a day-to-day sense this means that I now know for sure that…

*I will definitely never like white wine because it tastes of poo and headache

*I will never have really neat handwriting unlike my friend Liz whose current money making scheme is to sell her perfect script to Microsoft as a new font.

*I will never be the hot 27-year-old that Gary Barlow falls head over heels for because she can do a shit hot harmony to ‘A Million Love Songs’.

I think that list is extensive enough to make my point. I am older, wiser and exceptional at ‘Take That’ Singstar.

So bring it on, age 28, for if you are as interesting as age 27, the year I learned how to make poached eggs (you break an egg into BOILING WATER) then holy shit people, strap on in for the ride of your life.