I just – and I mean just – managed to recover from my horrible man flu in time for my birthday. By just, I mean in the cab at 10pm on my way to a party. I was still sucking a lozenge when I got out of the lift.

I don’t normally get too involved in birthdays. My own, I mean. This is going to sound ridiculous coming from me, but there’s something about everyone feeling like they have to make a fuss of some kind over me, or just somehow behave differently, that makes me uncomfortable. Yeah, really.

Thing is, with Christmas and other shared holidays we’re all in it together; there’s a sense of empathy and shared experience that takes the edge off the discomfort – no one is being fussed over more than anyone else (well, no one aside from Him) which somehow makes the whole thing more honest and heart-felt. Birthday greetings on the other hand, unless the birthday person has survived another year of leukemia or is 109, smack more of affectation than affection.

But this year, I decided to lap up the good wishes. Even from those who were basically prompted to say something by Facebook (which, by the way, is a fucking lifesaver for men like me who have a memory for people’s birthdates like David Irving has for the Holocaust). I got lots of nice messages, and texts and wall posts and emails and they Made Me Happy. Thank you.

The really nice thing though was that a couple of people who have known me for a looooong time and aren’t normally given to acts of sincerity sent me nice private emails to say nice things they wouldn’t normally be given to say. But because it was my birthday, and because they knew this might be one birthday that I’d appreciate it, they did. And I did. So thank you again. You know who you are.

(Also – an additional shout to Michelle for saying on my Facebook Wall that she loves me more than Prada. The fact that I know that to be untrue, doesn’t weaken the sentiment or the sly motive behind it. Kudos.)

Also thank you, Purple Sky people, for the fun and the Champagne. I may not have started til nearly 11, but it made for a hell of a birthday hour and a post birthday few hours.

Right – nothing else to say this weekend. I promise I’ll try to get the self-indulgence levels back down to their normal elevated level next week. I also hope to write more than a couple of thousands words a day on the book, otherwise I’m starting to panic. It’d be quite nice not to have to be still editing on New Years’ Eve.

One final thing: for those following the Writers’ Strike, and who haven’t already seen them, may I strongly recommend…

Speechless (start with this one)


Writer Boi.

Night night.