I have a new policy. I am going to continue having birthdays, but I will never be any older than 25. The thought of being a mere four years away from 30 is far too depressing to even contemplate, so as of now, I’m not going to age any more, and therefore yesterday, I was 25 for the second time.
The weekend itself was actually pretty good. I hijacked a friend’s leaving do at FAB Cafe in order to make it look like I had more friends than I really do, and spent a happy couple of hours watching bad Asian films and drinking Greene King IPA. I even attempted to get some actual real live females to come along, but in the end, only geek-in-training Rachel could actually make it, thus leading Naomi to the obvious conclusion that Rachel and I were having a secret perl-and-Java-programming-based lovefest whilst she was away in Norn Iron. At this point, things got confusing, but I seem to recall cleavage being involved. Either way, Naomi now has it into her head that she has competition; maybe I could arrange some sort of fight to the death. Or bikini-mudwrestling competition. Or something. Anyway, forgiveness was apparently eventually forthcoming as Naomi took me out for dinner (hurrah for womens lib!) on Sunday, and that was all good.
Richard apparently had a hand in the selection of my birthday present, which explains why I’ve now got 760 pages of “Jesus and the Victory of God” by N.T. Wright sat on my bookshelf. Other people were apparently also consulted, and it seems that Wayne Grudem’s Systematic Theology came up as an option at one point. I’m not entirely sure what I’d have said should that actually have turned up in my birthday stocking…
Anyway, my flatmate proved he knew me best of all by presenting me with a bottle of 12-year Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve. Hoorah.
Nice one – happy birthday – you just a baby really – it’s being 35 that really get’s you worried!
Happy (30-4)th birthday, Chris!
You should know, you don’t really need to worry until after you’ve left the mid-twenties. I mean, really. 20-23, the early 20s, it’s just… that’s not when you’re your most interesting. Things start to pick up mid-twenties. And as far as I’m concerned, mid-twenties end at about age 29.
What. I mean, I’m just saying.
Glad to have saved you from grudem!
happy birthday!
(And can you describe 12-year Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve? I’m supposed to be knowledgable about all of the 160 whiskys in my job.)
It’s like, well, a peaty Glenfiddich. Sweet, quite fruity, with a light smokiness.
If you need help with the other 159 of them, I’m quite willing to come up and taste them all, although I’m not prepared to vouch for the accuracy of anything after the first 6 or so.
What’s wrong with being almost 30? Eh? Eh?