Thirty Whatever

I celebrated my 30th birthday a couple of weeks ago in a nice French bar/brasserie near Covent Garden. I was wearing a new dress, new boots and a big smile. Friends from the four hundred and fifty two corners of my life joined me and I had a great time... apparently.

I say "apparently" because from approximately 11pm I have very little recollection of the evening, although I suppose I did relatively well to remember up until then. I blame the white wine. White wine, you see, is the work of the devil, of Beelzebub himself. It is what I consider to be a "threshold drink" and by that I mean that the threshold between being sober and being utterly shitfaced is very, very small indeed.

I danced... apparently, I danced some more... apparently, and then we got a taxi home... apparently.