Angora

I turned 40 today. As it is for everyone else when they turn forty, no matter that they might be Peter Pan or fat, balding and possessed of nine grandchildren, it doesn't seem possible. As a number it doesn't feel as if it belongs to me at all, but more as though someone has given it to me by mistake, and any moment now they'll come rushing up and say "hey, sorry, that was silly, that's for the greying, old-looking guy over there."

"You know, the one that looks just like you."

And then I wake up.

Unfortunately, I wake up freezing cold. It was sunny when I set out this morning. People texted me and said "look, the sun's come out for your birthday!" It was all joy and tweeting birds. So I threw on my best joy-and-tweeting-birds 3-piece suit and strolled to work whistling a jaunty tune. Now the only whistling is the ice-tinged gale blowing refrigerated drizzle into my 3-piece face.

There's no escape. I'm going to have to buy myself a birthday cardie, just to get through the day. Angora or no, old age clothing here I come.

(it'll probably be red, though, if it helps)