35

Today marks my 35th and one year since Trump's win. 09 November 2016 will go down in history as a disastrous day based on the ridiculousness that has since ensued.

You don't get much work done in the office on your birthday. There is a stream of well-wishers being kind, thoughtful and generous. I decided to keep expectations low, accept that my to-do list would likely grow, and embrace the bonhomie.

I suggested this pub for post-work drinks as I believed it was 'spacious'. Not so. Lots of friends came out and we had a gay old time, banter flying, clambering over furniture to move around, drinking shandy for pacing, but not realising what a pressurised effect it has on the bladder. Either that or 35 signals a weaker urinary system. We stayed here until last orders and then moved on, finally crashing out at an hour that was bad behaviour for a weeknight.

I had been marooned at home in the morning as the housing association announced they were checking for snagging issues. It turns out cracks around sockets and skirting boards aren't addressed unless 'you can fit a pound coin down them', noting them as a 'decoration' issue rather than a structural one. Yes, the decoration inherited from the people who constructed the building...

The woman was fairly snarky on seeing my bike in the hallway. 'There is a bike store downstairs you know'. 'Well if I could trust the security setup in the building I'd have more faith that they wouldn't be stolen down there.'

A cantankerous 35-year old shouldn't be sassed on his birthday.