When I was 5 I had a birthday party.
There were cakes and balloons and games. There were hats and music. All my friends were invited.
Before it started, I cried. I cried and I panicked. I screamed and cried and blubbed and begged for the party to be called off. I was terrified. I was terrified that no-one would come, and I would be exposed as the sad, friendless, loner that everyone hated.
I only recovered when the first little boy rang the doorbell. I still know the name of the first person to arrive at that party, thirty years later.
I have never had a party since.
I'm bringing this up just before I remind you about April the 15th. This is, as you may recall, the Lap of Honour. The final sweep of the Loop. The end of the blog. And you're invited.
Yes, I know it's a Sunday. I know it's the end of the Easter holidays. I know you have proper friends and people you like and stuff. I know the Grand National and Liverpool vs Everton are the day before. But it'll be your last chance to see inside Central for about six months, and you'll do it in the company of a thirty-something nerd with a disturbing James Bond obsession. And there will be a pub. How can you refuse?
Sunday, April 15th. 2pm. Outside James Street.
Or I'll cry.
Tsk! I'm coming already. I've already bought you a special t-shirt and everything. I've got the ball-and-chain's permission to buy you too much commemorative alcohol and then get off with someone inappropriate who also turns up for it. Calm down already.
On reflection, I said "already" too much. Stop badgering me.
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