...basking in the sunshine (yep, I'm a reptile, and only UV rays can move my cold, reptile blood around my body) right around the corner from Covent Garden, when this guy walked past (nearly treading on my foot) talking in to his phone about his 21st birthday party on Saturday night - and it dawned on me that never again will I be 21. In fact, I'm now 21 plus 1.5 years. I will be 23 at the end of the year. I am, like, a fully-fledged adult (although, with London property prices I'll probably still be living at home by the time I'm 25). I have a very good BSc, a very good job with even better prospects and I'm debt free. Pretty much. For now, anyway. This is all waaay too much. I mean, last night my mother was hinting about becoming a grandmother before it's too late; in fact, her actual words were, "Chorizo pequeño, when are you going to be married and have some bebés for me? You know, you're just getting older and soon your ovarios are going to shrivel up like little pasas (that's raisins/sultanas for y'all) and before you know it you'll be looking for how best to spend your pension". Because the only reason I'll have babies is especially for her to have grand kids. The fruit of my loins, where my ovaries are likened to dried fruit.
Nice.
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Wait a second!?! If YOU are a fully-fledged adult, then that must mean I am too. And I do not yet subscribe to that silly notion!
So, uh, go easy on your ovaries, will ya? You got plenty of time.
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