It recently dawned on me (as these things often do) that I will be turning 29 in a few months. And if we all paid careful attention in math class then we should know that the big 3-0 is not that far behind…
horrifying illuminating realisation inspired me to write an ode to the approach of three decades. It neatly sums up precisely how I feel about getting older.
There’s no such thing as 30,
29 is also fake,
I’m certain I’ve not turned 28, there must
be some mistake.
I don’t recall a 27, perhaps I was in a
26 I missed, I’m sure of this – must have
happened while I was sleeping.
At 25 I reached halfway – to what, I’m not
Because I’m absolutely positive I never
23? No, that wasn’t me – another one I’ve
I shan’t discuss the 22, it just does not
I should have spent my 21 drinking in a bar,
But since my liver’s in top shape, I didn’t
get that far.
So I guess I must be 20! I’m sure it’s what
Does it matter that I’ve been 20 for the
last 8 years or so?
Written by Mish, in her head, during the school run on a particularly windy autumn morning.