Well, today is my birthday...hoooooooo ray.
It's the first birthday I've had since the birth of my own son Finn. That makes it seem more important somehow, like I am starting to realise why my parents love me or something, like I'm maybe even growing up a bit?
I've had thirty two birthdays now and my hair is thinning, my belly growing, my interest in politics and experimental novels diminishing - in other words I feel middle age rushing on.
And yet I still have a bloody minded determination to do things my way, to fight against the world (that says independent bookselling cannot work these amazon days - that whispers "you'll never make any money" - get a proper job - nobody is interested in authors reading or silly radio shows) and win, to create the best bloody bookshop in London if it kills me!
And just now a bloke was in the shop, came up to the till...
"Need a hand with anything?"
"No - I'm looking for gaffa tape and just saw this place for the first time, thought I'd pop in. Do you know what? I'm not going to buy anything now 'cos I'm only meant to be away for five mins but I think this is probably the best bookshop I've ever been in. I'll be back."
Thanks mate - Happy Bloody Birthday Me!