2004-07-27 - 4:11 p.m.

As my �late twenties� finally slip from my grubby fingers like some delicate Ming vase coated in low fat spread, I embrace this very day what can only reasonably be referred to as my �early pre-thirties�, a stage I envision lasting for at least two more years in itself. By the time I reach my �late proto-thirties� I may well be drawing a pension.

Among the cheery events leading up to today�s age-advancement-fest was the uniquely awkward situation of having to sit at a table with the grieving ex-girlfriend of an acquaintance who had just killed himself, and her non-English speaking parents just arrived in the country. I had met the guy about five times, and obviously felt bad that he had died (though not as bad as her, having finished things with him a couple of days before) but I was only at the house by association, and boy, that is one tense way to spend an evening. I can�t even make small talk in English in these circumstances, let alone wing it in a foreign language. Imagine the atmosphere if, by trying to commiserate with some elegant phrase, I accidentally got the wrong word and in trying to say �I�m sorry for your loss�, it came out inadvertently as �I�m happy for your loss�, or �I�m sorry for your horse�, or �Would you mind if I donned a pair of clogs and danced a little jig on his still-warm corpse?� or something.

That could really have put a downer on things.

Still, onwards and upwards, and the day has been spent with an equally uplifting day at work, which is to finish soon, and I intend to sup no small amount of booze drink. Oh yes. Tune in tomorrow for When Hangovers Attack, followed by World�s Stupidest Copy Editors IV.