My weekend camping trip was absolutely wonderful, and barely rained at all in the end. We are so epically un-rock 'n' roll that we spent our time pottering around the local farmers market and playing rummy and charades. We must be getting old.
On which note, it's my birthday tomorrow. I'm not thrilled, I have to say. I don't like having a birthday when things aren't going too well, and my continuing and relentless inability to get anyone to even interview me for a proper job is sending me a little bit loopy. On the other hand, this was the year when I managed to graduate, so I have at least acheived one thing, not that it seems to be helping much at this moment in time.
The whole birthday-based bad mood was not helped much by coming home to find my birthday cake gone. Ok, my Tesco finest tartes aux fruit. Hey, it's my birthday dessert, and I can have a tart if I want to. Except I can't. Because my brother ate them. That's right ladies and gentlemen, as if it isn't pathetic enough to have to purchase my own birthday cake in the first place, I don't even get to eat it. I suspect this proves my theory that the universe is out to get me. You know, just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get your tartes.
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