We’re going out in a bit to my second cousin Riley’s first birthday, which seems a bit pointless as he is not even aware that he is a year older. Still, it’s a celebration that he hasn’t died of the Plague yet – and it’s only twenty more years until the big two one. Don’t tell his parents.
I don’t know how many of you know this, but on the 23rd May I am running (or jogging, possibly walking) five kilometers for the Race for Life and my Duke of Edinburgh award scheme. The widget to sponsor me is on the sidebar, if you have any spare cash/don’t want to get cancer. Anyway, part of my D. of E. work is to volunteer and raise money for Cancer Research, aka Race for Life. This meant that I was up at five o’clock this morning (having had five and a half hours sleep last night) to do a bootsale. In the cold. Selling my old junk next to my brother, who’s eleven and made fifteen quid more than me. I scraped £20 because my dad donated his float.
I don’t think I’m an entrepeneur.
Then I cleaned the stove, because I also owe my dad money for the MP3 player I got last week which is expensive as I am skint. So I made the kitchen stove look like this:
Masterchef, here I come – through the back door, clutching Cillit Bang and rubber gloves.
NB: happy-birthday-for-Friday to G. Way, and does anyone else think it’s ironic that the post that’s got the most comments on here is the one with the least words?