This outrageous hour.

I don't know what I'm still doing awake at this outrageous hour - I was determined, many hours ago, to get the work done that I needed to do early, and I've succeeded, but it's three in the morning and I've just finished. But mostly having spent the previous number of hours looking at used cars for sale on Pistonheads. I can't even write coherently at this ridiculous time, and I know it - it's like one of those dreams where you're running, but you can't run very fast, except that was never a dream for me, it was games every week on a Wednesday. I can see myself writing complete and utter gibberish and I can't do anything about it. Normally I write gibberish because I have some false and perfectly vague notion that it's somehow endearing or humorous to write in that kind of fashion, but it's really not. It's just gibberish, with extra ponce.

And I tell you what, I just cracked my elbow on my sidetable, I believe my lower arm is about to fall out of its elbow-shaped placeholder. Putting these streams of unconsciousness to one side for a moment, I shall just whisper the reason for my brief early morning forway into the wilds of my blog (and I do apologise, I shall get round to cutting back those weeds shortly), and that is, it's my birthday. I don't like making a fuss, I didn't really want to mention it, but then there will be those awkward comments tomorrow or later on when I make some passing reference to my birthday and everyone will be like 'ooh, happy birthday', because that's what you do and that.

I've just turned 26. I've been 26 for nearly three hours, do you think that's what's keeping me awake? That and sheer age - I have read that you need less sleep as you get older, I just didn't realise that the changes were so immediate. Anyway, dear reader, it is time for me to get some beauty sleep. Ah, that explains it - beauty sleep. I've got to the wizened age where I can't do anything more and the only option is surgery. I'm saving up for botox, I've noticed lines on my head.