Birthday wishes

I'm going to be 31 in a couple of days.

I wrote three books by thirty.

I am largely happy. I'm happy because I'm doing things I like, in a city I'm fond of. I'm happy because I have people I love, and that love me. I'm happy because it seems things are coming together.

And yet.



There is a great yawning "what's next?"

There are three books, but I want more. I want to be at the pinnacle of my career. I want to be the toast of town. I have ambitions, secret, craven ambitions, where I'm everywhere and everyone knows who I am.

And I want more. I want everything to rise to a glorious crescendo, fading away into rapture. I'm impatient about my needs. 

These are my wishes for thirty one. 

Fame. Not in keeping with the whole "noble writer" thing, but who is a noble writer anymore anyway?


And happiness. What use is fame if you aren't happy?

And love. Which I have and which I want to continue. 

And success and money. I want to be rich and with enough time to travel. I want to go everywhere and do everything.

Not too much to ask for, I think. 

And while the universe is being accommodating, I want a parking spot outside my house, just for me, "Reserved, no parking, tyres will be deflated". 

Okay? Okay.