Walking into the last year of my twenties I come to realise a few things.

Number one is that I'm thirty next year, number two is that I'm entering my thirties and number three I'm considered that little bit older by most because I am in my thirties.

So my twenty-ninth is going to held on one of the hottest days in London (of which the ever for-seeing eye of the BBC Weatherman has foretold) amongst what looks to be strangers, celebrating someone elses birthday. Would this be considered that I'm in gatecrashing someone's birthday? Thus once that is finished - say 3:30pm I will be heading to a bar to watch the England versus Portugal game. What would be a better present for me I wonder? England loss or England win? Even though the table is tipped towards the Brazilians to win another star on their jersey I do hope the pom's can pull another World Cup under their belt by getting through versus Portugal who has put nails into their coffin before. But lets be honest about the English, they are miserable gits and need a perk up.

As I sit on the sixth floor of one of my companies office blocks in the heart of the financial district of London, overlooking the antique obelisks of other buildings and the relic of St Paul's Cathedral (of yet that I have crossed its pious threshold). I wonder to myself about life past as I process the contracts of the capitalistic pork bellies and corporate lap dogs with there obscene annual income and bonus's. Maybe it's the glistening side and underbelly of a jealous outlook and the green tint of envy. Enlightenment that although my life is constrained at present it has still yet to bloom. Knowing that when I come to the fork in the road I could pursue the undertow of being a wealthy linchpin or content in some other fond outlook which I cling onto and remind myself and other people. It is asked of me often of my future plans and the retort is usually;

"You want to hear the long or short plan?"

Of which most replies are usually with a feigned interested and sly smirk;

"Long plan..."

The usual ramble is well known now and usually ends with me saying after 10 minutes of extensive vocabulary labour;

"...that's me in a nutshell."

I know what I am doing will be extensive for thy career when I rotate back to Australia, so I jest now and in 6 months time it may be less than jovial.

Let us move on and try and recap what you may have missed while I have been living the dosser's life here in London. It has been a month and I am yet to sleep in a bed, but alas I move into a room on Sunday, in Clapham Junction, and thus the strain my back will be relieved.

I have been to a number of parties while back here and they seem to not have changed from the debauched, cess-pools, and sweat infested walls since I left. The common trait of many is to stay until the sun rises and I am yet to get home beforehand yet. You stay along for the ride and hope that something interesting may evoke itself, by the similarities of water and wine, or you may just settle for chalk and cheese. I'm usually bedazzled by the stirring of hunger and one too many crude woman wanting far more than a talk about herself. Thus I leave and make the long or short journey home, dependant on if I know the area or not, lost adventures are somewhat fun.

One such adventure posed significance last weekend, being tracked down by the party organiser and being asked if he could pass my number onto a lass I allegedly conversed with. Painting you a picture to familiar, you go to these things, you mingle and you usually become intoxicated that the memory and discussion of your repressed thoughts is lost along with the face, gender and time you mentioned it. I felt benevolent and approved the transaction of contact details. Now I haven't been looking for any said female in London, but I was intrigued what the hell I said to have someone track me down, due to the fact I cannot possibly remember the night in question anyhow.

Come Tuesday I was invited to her house for dinner. To cut a long story short, after thirty (that lucky number again) minutes I was ready to leave. We had established that I spoke of many different things that evening of which;

- Cancerian
- Was dressed as Superman (was a fancy dress and I went as Clark Kent)
- Just got back from Australia and working in central London
- Lived in a suburb she visited when she was in Sydney (ie. Wollstencraft)
- And had size 13 shoes

It was scary that she remembered all that, and worried me that I did not recall it.

Firstly she has two cats, I don't mind cats, but I do mind if there bed is the only couch you are sitting on and your suit which you were hoping to wear tomorrow is now cover in a good layer of cat hair after thirty (that number again) seconds. I laughed about it with her, even though the image of swinging the cats around by their tails was what I was laughing about. The conversation dipped and dived like the Exon Oil stocks in 1995. Soon she was talking about wanting babies because she was also thirty (ahhhh a subtle reminder) next year.

"When do you want to have babies?" I asked, as I know this conversation is quite evident with most single ladies I meet these days. The natural clock is tock-ticking and their fear of gravity and conformist attitude to the way society should look will see them as a spinster.... with their cats.

"As soon as possible." She said, sipping the cheap but delicious Australian wine I love to buy over here. It was a Lindemans. Did you know a 3L cask of Blackrock is £17.50 here, work that out in Australian and you are buying a cask of Blackrock Chardonnay for nearly $40au, when I know I bought a similar one for about $12 when I was back in Sydney... I've digress.

Now the as soon as possible opens up avenues of slight amusement and understanding along with the fear of becoming someone's incubated sperm count for there frozen eggs. "Oh like in a year or so?" I asked.

"Well, the thing is, if I see a guy, I'll know within I a week if I want a baby with him."

My cough and struggle with swallowing the crimson was audible, along with the reach for my bag with my foot to bring it closer to me for a quicker get away. I hummed and looked at the watch on my wrist, realising I haven't worn a watch for ten years, then realising ten years ago I was eighteen going on nineteen and probably would be reacting the same way if a girl said this to me. I left shortly afterwards vowing that the situation unfolded was a small nightmare I am yet to contend with, but a situation I would want with someone I love first.

So I decided after Tuesday that women in London are evil spawn wanting my seed and I am to keep well clear of them. My reasons in general why I went to dinner;

- I was intrigued into why she wanted to track me down and what I said
- I had £15 (rent + deposit on room = a lot of £ ) to my name and she said she was cooking, which resulted in my spending nothing for dinner
- I wanted to remind myself that life is still strange, and strangers have some life

We all end up in the funny predicaments and it's amusing consequences with the sporadic episodes of life that it persists on playing. Like old 'Married with Children' re-runs, that you remember once was amusing to watch, but now, society has changed and the act is dull, lifeless and unrehearsed.

To being twenty-nine....

Cheers to all my friends and family who are sending me their love today and tomorrow.