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Yesterday I turned 21. That seems like a decent place to start. Age is only a number, I know, but I'm universally considered an adult now, more or less, and that's a pretty big thing. I feel like an actual adult now anyway. I can drink wine and go into sex shops without giggling, I think that's all you need to be considered a grown up. That's all you should need. Fuck logic and responsibility and common sense.

Anyway, Lizzie came down on Wednesday and then we went out on my actual birthday. We went to this sex shop in Hoxton which specifically caters for women, and Lizzie attempted to persuade me to buy a sparkly purple riding crop but I declined for reasons of, er, practicality mainly. And then we went to the BFI Southbank bar and had cocktails, and then we went to eat a fair amount of steak at Black and Blue in London Bridge, and then we went to go to see Stewart Lee's new show at the Leicester Square Theatre and this is sounding a lot like the essays I used to write in primary school except with more alcohol and slightly more grown up hobbies.

And then we went home.

The next morning I got a text from Sam, my boyfriend, quoting some of the lyrics to Leaving on a Jet Plane by John Denver because he was going away on holiday with Andy (his best friend, Lizzie's boyfriend). Which was pretty sweet, right, except for the fact that I immediately started down the thought path of 'well that's tempting fate a bit isn't it, I hope he doesn't ACTUALLY DIE IN A PLANE CRASH, because we all know what happened to John Denver don't we'. He hasn't died in a plane crash, though. I checked. Now all I need is for him to not to die in a plane crash when he comes back and everything will be fine.

For the meantime, though, I'm in Bristol with Lizzie, and we're going out with her friends for New Year's Eve. Then other stuff will happen in due course. That's how having a life works, right? Right.

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Charlie

January 2012

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