I turned 28 on Wednesday. Not middle-aged by a long shot. But I got there and over the last few days it's dawned on me that I have very little to show of my years between the ages of about 16 and now.
When I was really young, mum and dad took lots of photos of me as I was growing up. That's evidence of my existence on this planet. However, since then, I've got lots of bits of paper that say I did things - GCSE certificates, A-Levels, Degree, P45's - but the photos have stopped. Largely my own fault as I can't be arsed with putting cameras in my jeans. Even worse, now that I do a proper grown up job, I have no reason to even write anything for any real purpose other than work.
That's wrong. Very wrong.
Years have clearly passed by me when, okay, not a lot happened but I still had a lot to say about it. But those words are now lost. Uttered once and blown away by the breeze. I read that in a poem once. Quite liked it so suitably changed it so as to avoid any accusations of plagiarism. Things have to change or else I'll end up at 65 without a flippin' thing to my name.
So, armed with my phone - as that fits in my jeans, takes photos and doesn't annoy me - I aim to jot down as much rubbish here as I can be bothered to put down. I'll even decorate it with my photos. If I can figure it out, I'll go so far as linking to my photos on Flickr too. But, to be honest, that's given me a headache just thinking about it...