Thirty

It's a strange thing, being 30. Yes, it's just a number, just a convenient marker point. There's plenty of thirtysomethings that are funnier, more energetic and more irresponsible than many twentysomethings. I know more than a few.

But still. 30. There's been a change in the way I think of myself, which I've not quite got my head around yet. I can't really think of myself as a beginner anymore, or someone who is unconditionaly young. OK, I'm young - but in comparison, like to a pensioner. I'm a grown up. Teenagers probably think I'm old. Especially if they saw me with my new walking poles.

In Wales, smiling through the pain of creaky knees.

But if the number feels a bit weird, the process of turning 30 was great. As Lauren's blogged already, we had a really excellent party here in Ealing, then a trip to Ireland that saw us relish the New Zealandesque scenery and flexibility of a car. Thanks to all our friends, especially those who came from far away to get to London's Mild West for drinks. Extra special thanks to:

Erica, for the yummy cake.

Flatmate Jay, for the Airbornes. Evil man, evil drink.

Supercooks Megan and Clint, Flash the rental car and Horace the tent for making camping in Ireland one of the best things we've done since leaving home.

Lauren, for not realising how close she was to the edge of Inishmore.

The ancient Aran Islanders, for building Dun Aegnus, an awesome hill fort whose back door is always open.
Ireland, for being almost as gorgeous as you-know-who.