In my generation, after my mother and fathers, I am the first grandchild for both their parents.

On my father’s side, I am also the only grandchild my grandfather has ever known. He died from cancer in the same year that I was born.

Sometimes I think that it would have been nice if he was still around.


It’s a fucking horror show out there. I’m talking about a mother effing shitstorm. Thirty year olds all over the world are defacating and building high walls out of poo. I now understand why they call it, The Dirty Thirties.

My google search of advice on “turning 30”, insinuates that I would have clinical depression or I’m SO INSANELY HAPPY! (which is still described as clinical depression). According to one insightful column all I need is,“A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.” I feel like such a modern woman now. I can drill lots of holes in my walls whilst dancing around provocatively in my underwear. My grandfather would have been so very proud.


My mother will probably buy me another dining set, as she has been for the past five years. It’s exciting because I’m sick of eating off the same boring dinner plate. I look forward to more entertaining dinner plate designs.


I don’t have anything profound to say about becoming thirty. I am not, by any means, defined by a number.

You can choose how you live your life. If you don’t like it, then change it. Don’t blame it on anyone else and especially not on something so trivial as a number.

This reminds me of a conversation between a friend and I.

“I don’t believe in parent parking.
It’s not a disability.
It’s a choice!”

Hahahaha! Terrible but also funny.

“Happy THIRTIETH Birthday, Sibby. Aren’t you glad you made it?”

I’m giving the finger to my sixteen year old self, you pessimistic young bastard.

Sibby xx