My birthday! My fucking birthday!
I should be happy, and yet something feels wrong.
I actually share my birthday with Elvis Presley, David Bowie, Dame Shirley Bassey and Stephen Hawking. So even though I have a new novel coming out – my second – I don’t feel like I truly fit in. Who am I after all? Just a bloke who wrote one horror novel which did the bottom end of okay, and is now putting out another one which he can only hope does better. (Will this blog help? It seems to have taken an odd detour from book promotion, doesn’t it?) I don’t yet deserve to be part of such an elite club and maybe I never will, but that’s not why I’m somewhat downbeat.
I’ve not heard from Alison so far today. There’s been no birthday card, no birthday text, no smiley Aussie face on Skype. I even texted her to see what time she would be free for a chat, but have had no response. What is going on? Things seemed to be going well. When I spoke to her in the week it was all flirty and happy, looking forward to her coming back to the UK. And now, well, she’s not even sent me a birthday message. Maybe something has happened, maybe she has been caught up somewhere. But where? What could have taken place? It is most bizarre and I’m somewhat worried.
My parents and my sister rang up with best wishes (I really must go and see them soon) and I’ve had cards and messages from friends. This year I’ve done little more to celebrate than just stay in my flat and receive phone-calls. For whatever reason – even though my birthday is on a weekend – I couldn’t be bothered with the big celebration. Right now I’d rather just be by myself.
No dreams last night, thank god, but that mugging keeps replaying in my mind. How stupid was I to behave like that over a wallet which had at most twenty quid in it. All in all I’m glad I’ve made it to 37, but what does the next year hold?
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