Yesterday I turned 39. I know. I've done the sums. Next year I will be 40.
Featuring one candle.
It was a little cake.
Couldn't jam 35 candles onto that teeny thing.
And yes, I said 35. Not 39.
Because the art of successfully conning people about your age
relies heavily on confusing those people at every opportunity.
I received all sorts of texts, emails and Facebook messages from my lovely family and friends yesterday, wishing me a happy birthday. There were lots of texts along the lines of: "Happy Birthday! I can't believe you're going to be 40 next year! " with a few of these: "Is it your 40th next year, cos you don't look a day over 35" thrown in for good measure (did I mention I have the loveliest friends ever? Cos I totally do. They're so lovely, they'll lie to me about me!)
And then there was this: A pic of Jamie Oliver (with a couple of very good looking randoms) sent to me from a mate of my brothers. Apparently Jamie is wishing me a happy birthday. Nice. Very thoughtful. And a lovely surprise.
On a side note, I think I might photoshop my head onto the blonde birds body so that
a) I'll be in a photo with Jamie Oliver
and b) I'll have finally reached my goal weight.
Yes, that sounds much easier than slogging it out at the gym for 2 hours...
every. single. day.