I have recently been worrying about my age. I know this is ridiculous at the age of 27, but I feel like I haven't been making the most of my twenties. I rarely stay out late and don't do very many crazy spontaneous things these days, and I thought that was the way I liked it. But a recent bout of existential crises has made me panic about not getting enough of this stuff in before I turn 30.
Yes, I am aware this is completely ridiculous because there is really nothing wrong with wanting to sleep and eat all weekend instead of going out and taking drugs and being cerrrrrAzy. But never the less I am worried.
So worried in fact that I have accidentally-on-purpose planned an intensley manic weekend of the kind I wouldn't even have attempted at 17 when early morning starts were basically outlawed making it much easier to stay out late for more than one night in a row.
After work tonight I will be attempting to find a pirate costume as later I will be attending Miss L Trouble's night at the Barfly dressed as said pirate.
The night will no doubt be the usual mix of stress on behalf of my friend - who may or may not have bitten off more than she can chew - mild discomfort at seeing a host of old faces, lots of drinking, admiring of people's outfits and, hopefully, dancing like an idiot.
In the wee small hours of saturday morning, probably with my eye patch still glued to my face, I will wake up with a bad hangover and a serious grump on to schlep to my mum's house to be there so my cousin can pick me up at 6am with all our stuff to do a stall at the car boot sale in Kilburn again.
We should finish with the car boot at about three, at which point I will have been awake for ten hours with a hangover.
The plan then is to go home, have a shower and head to Brixton to celebrate little J's birthday before heading to the Royal Opera House to see Cinderella at an event hosted by Audi. I have been promised a starry guestlist at said event, including Jeremy Clakson, who had better stay away from me because in my worse-for-wear state his appearance may make me physcially ill.
After this I will either be heading back to Brixton for a continuation of little J's birthday celebrations, or to bed. Or possibly to another party.
And then on Sunday I have to hold myself together for lunch with mum who will want to know all about my life.
I am terrified of waking up on Monday morning as a slobbering sleep-deprived idiot with a head full of noxious drink fumes. Which is what you're supposed to do in your twenties, right?