23,

Yesterday was my birthday, and I turned 23 years old. 

I have a thing about odd numbers that means I could not be happier to be 23; I know it's weird. This has been pointed out to me many times in the last few weeks, but I don't care. Everyone has their little quirks. 

The sucky thing is I spent the whole day in my bed due to being ill, rather than being there just to chill out and rest. The honest truth is that I would be likely to have stayed in bed anyway, but reading a book instead of sleeping through the entire day. 

I hate it when my weekends go like this. I had a list of a million and one things I wanted to get done, and I feel like I've got none of them done. I didn't touch the novel at all.

The actual celebrating of my birthday is going to be next weekend. I'm getting the train up to Edinburgh, seeing my parents and finally getting to meet a pair of pandas. I can't remember how long it is since they came to Scotland, but I'm excited to finally go and see them. Less excited about the 7 hour journey there and another coming back, but I guess that just can't be helped. And it gives me a lot of uninterrupted work time to be either writing or editing. Thinking about it is making me wonder how I feel about being sans laptop still. 

Urgh, I don't know.