Yes, you read it right. It’s my birthday. Another year older.
So far today the highlights have been a lie in, a sausage roll and a bizarre dream I’m going to share with you.
In the dream, I had a dog (I don’t have one in real life) who wouldn’t leave my side, nor stop trying to chew playfully on my fingers. This dog was compromising everything I tried to do on a day out. I couldn’t even go into Debenhams. Cutting out about thirty minutes of meaningless meanderings, somebody eventually told me I should call him Hobstant (or Hobstance, I’m not quite sure now) because he was like an annoying little hobbit who constantly wouldn’t go away. So I did call him that.
And then I woke up… And he was gone.
Moral of the dream? Probably that you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone. I’m not one for interpreting dreams. I just like the funny ones.
Back to the subject of this post. My birthday. Do I consider my current one particularly humbling? Perhaps, especially when I realise I’m already older than the age several sports stars were when they retired. However, I am also several years younger than Manchester United midfielder Ryan Giggs, 40. Plus, hopefully, I can continue to write for several decades to come. Age shouldn’t be deterrent in this field… I hope.
Anyway, I’m off to finish writing chapter 10 of The Unchained Cuckold. Fish n’ chips are the plan for dinner. And then perhaps a few pints in the local with the lads.
Take care, everyone.