30. Rhymes with 'flirty'. Doesn't rhyme with 'oh fuck'. Odd.

I guess posting an 'oh holy mother of God I'm nearly 30!' discourse would be tedious and predictable? Well tough - for someone who leaps on every opportunity to obssess and fret and worry, the lure is just too great.

I was looking forward to turning 30 in that weird, sick way. You know, the way you look forward to getting a bad stomach bug because of the effort-free weight loss, or a big operation because of all the attention and presents. The odd thing is, although I feel compelled to have the obligatory crisis I just can't seem to muster up the requisite hysteria. It's quite annoying really; this is the man that spent the two months before turning 25 in a tear-streaked diva-strop and STILL gets emotional when the poor, white trash contestant on 'Wheel of Fortune' wins the jackpot. Hell, I even shed a tear when 'Steps' broke up. So surely turning 30 should be a perfect excuse to exercise my inner drama queen?

Previously at times of great crisis - relationship break-ups, hair straighteners on the blink, running out of wine at 11.05pm on a Monday night - said drama queen didn't so much get exercised as thrown on the treadmill at full speed on a 45-degree incline until she screamed. So why, in the final moments before such a monumental occassion, hasn't she appeared? There's n'ery a Gucci running shoe or a Prada sweat-towell in sight. Have I really changed that much? Perhaps my need to obssess at such a major occurence has been tempered by the fact that my husband is 43 and looks fantastic, thus negating the commonly-held belief that it all goes wrong as you get older. Or perhaps it's because my closest friends have already leaped this hurdle - and done it gracefully, without dissolving into fits of woe and self-pity. Maybe that last point is complete bollocks and it's just that I couldn't hear their anguished cries from 5,000 miles away...

Or - and here's a scary thought - perhaps I have come to realise that even though there are a million things in this world worth being upset about, getting a little older isn't one of them.

Or perhaps this is normal denial and at the stroke of midnight on June 12th I'll find myself drunk on the sofa in my underwaer, eating two litres of Ben and Jerry's straight from the tub because lets-face-who-cares-I'm-old-and-hideous-and-what's-the-point-anyway?

Stay tuned folks - we'll be right back after these messages...

Cover it in shit... and watch it grow

I love to read. Many books move me, and it's fair to say that more than once I have proclaimed 'that book changed my life!'. Some people will know that more than others because if I love a book, I love to share it. A precious few books will stay with me forever. Some are recent discoveries. Some date far back, and are all but forgotten until current events force you into a state of contemplation and reflection...

There's a book I read whilst at school. I was 10 years old and my Dad had just been diagnosed with cancer of the throat. He'd been given six months to live. The cruel reality of his disease would take him away from me in less than three.

He was my life. My saviour, and my hero. After several years of absolute horror (long story, best not disclosed here) he had rescued me and, as far as I was concerned, I lived in safety. I was happy. I was loved.

He died.

I had an amazing teacher throughout all this. She was there for me in many ways, ways which only now as an adult I can fully comprehend and understand. And, ironically, never thank her for in person. She made me (yes, MADE me) read a book called "Fireweed", which after a quick whiz on Amazon I find out is written by Jill Paton Walsh. At age 10, with your whole life capsizing about your ears, you don't really pay attention to this kind of detail...

So, the book... well, I have to read it again before I can comment on its literary attributes. And I will. I have just ordered it. However I don't need to read it again to recall the impact it had on me in 1987. The story concerns two London orphans left behind in the child evacuation of WWII and, despite everything working against them, they flourish and survive in the hostile environment they find themselves in. "Fireweed" - the title - refers to a rare flower that manages to grow in the most extreme of environments. In fact, it thrives in these conditions.

Even at age 10 I understood the book - its context and its relevance. God bless you, Mrs Parker. Your insight was, and is, incredible. But, with the onset of hormones, it was inevitably forgotten. Until today...

I read an article in the paper that this flower was found growing amongst the two-month old ruins of a bombed-out school in Iraq, in a villlage that had been razed to the ground with over 200 fatalities and where no life remained.

Being 10 years old and losing your Dad, or being a villager burned out of your home... being in a relationship that's faultering, or a family dispute, or any situation where you feel life just can't possibly treat you any worse...

I was reminded - with a clarity that only comes once in a while - that no matter how shitty life gets, it still manages to grow. And some good always sprouts from the destruction...