Birthday Girl graduates to become Birthday Aunty

As is annual custom in my diary, I am busy moping today.

Last night I was out for a Bolloywood Nite at Aqua. Apparently it was my Birthday Party. But as I was painfully correcting everyone, my birthday is not a party. It is a funeral of a perfectly good-sounding year killed from my introduction. Forever.

Yesterday was particularly traumatic as my twenty-somethingness was in its last throes. Possibly, my dancing too was in its last throes, judging from the looks I got. But when you are twenty-nine years down and the thirtieth has begun to tick you get some rights to display uncoolness.

Many people tell me that thirty is not the end of the road. However, an exact 100% of such people are older than colour-TV in India and remember watching Chitrahaar as children, and therefore have no credibility.

So if you are about to wish me a happy birthday, do not expect any smiling "Thank You darling! (muah, muah)", unless of course you are accompanied by a birthday gift/birthday money in which case thanks for contributing to my drowning-sorrows-fund.