Sometimes close friends of mine express confusion about my actual age. This is down to a number of factors. My father habitually concealed his age. My reasons are different. I don’t want notional decade numbers to shift me out of the mix for parts that I could very efficiently play. I can play a wide range of ages. Partly because I’ve kept a youthful heart. Partly because I can grow a beard that adds minimum five years. Today is my birthday. I’m 64,156,643 years old. It’s my birthday in that I’m writing this after midnight. I should be in bed. I can’t afford an uber, and even mentioning their name right now makes for some big debates that I don’t have headspace for. I’m splashing out on a night bus instead.

The occasion of my birthday makes me remember my old friends the dinosaurs. It’s so uncomfortable how the millennials make them out to be great big terrifying man-eating lizards. I can guarantee you that none of them ever ate a human in their life. Not even Rex. He had a heart of gold, did Rex, despite those tiny hands. “Yeah, they’re tiny,” he would say to detractors. “But my penis is 20 foot long.” Then he’d show people. “Any world leader that lets their own tiny hands worry them – it’ll be because at heart they’re worried their penis is miniscule.”

Then there was Stego. In the end she was just too spiky for our relationship to last. I love spiky lovers usually. I’m drawn to the sharp edges. But not when I nearly lose a leg. Enough is enough. Plus I was jealous of her tail, if I’m honest.

As you might be able to glean, I’m hanging out with lots of people who are marginally younger than I am. I was working the immersive Gatsby as front of house/security/deal-with-the-drunk-people-guy. My first night in that role, but working with friends. Afterwards we all sang improvised songs to guitar, played cards, chatted, and laughed. Here some of them are, looking drunk. Imagine how I look:


Now I’m making words on a nightbus that might as well be a daybus. It’s 5.25am. I put an incomplete filler blog to post at this time so I expect I’ll have to paste over it. Tomorrow is my birthday proper. Who knows what madness I’ll manage. It’ll be nothing to what Tracey Ratops was capable of back when Rex and I were homies. She and I would have it LARGE. I’d wake up in those days with my mouth full of raw Plesiosaur fins wondering how I even got into that cave in the first place.

Tomorrow i’m thinking a late pub lunch in Chelsea. 3pm. I’m not 64,156,142 any more so I need to sleep. Time to rein it back. It’s almost six and I haven’t slept yet. When you get close to 65 million you need to start thinking about longevity and taking care. I’ll learn in time. Another million years or so.

I haven’t thought my birthday through at all. Phone me if you’re free and fancy Altime. I want to see you. I’m just crap at organising. No Icthyosaurs. Last time one bit off my tail. And absolutely no bloody Velociraptors. Seriously guys. Even Rex hated those fuckwits. God rest his soul.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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