My birthday. 35. Perhaps should have done more with my life, but I guess we all think like that and to be honest, I'm feeling quite relaxed about it all.
Intended to take the day off, and for the most part of it I did...I mean, confirmed a couple shows in the morning that have been lurking in or around my inbox for a while, and also another lounge show - this one pays really well and it's local. More like that, please.
First birthday without my dad being alive, so it only felt right to spend it with Mum. Was a nice day, like a normal day seeing Mum in which I spent most of it sat in Waitrose car park with the dog and she reminded me a few times that I haven't given her grandchildren yet. During that waiting time though I wrote the structure for the Oscar Pike sitcom and got really excited about it. It was a nice day, stopped for a moment and played some football on the Playstation (turned it off when I lost), had a nice dinner etc.
Got back, had a beer with my housemate and panicked at an email I got from a really, really big comedy agent (biggest in the country?) saying they are going to watch me live soon.
Does life actually begin at 35? I reckon so.
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