Please be upstanding for the 27th Annual International Jo Day

Today is International Jo Day. 

This year I am celebrating by dragging mostly unused kitchenware from a shed at the bottom of the garden, washing it, and placing it in bags. Then I'm going to get all my clothes, the vast array of toiletries I seem to require daily, some choice photos and a selection of my favourite electronics, and pack all them up too.

Today I am 27. And I am moving out.

(Second time lucky, yeah?)

Let's get together (and be alright)

My birthday is on Saturday. I know I mentioned this the other day, but those who have read this blog for years will be well aware that International Jo Day stretches way beyond the 24 hour mark in my calendar.

A lot of people don't like birthdays. I, on the other hand, have never much minded them. Any excuse for people to give presents and generally lavish attention on you is never a bad thing in my book. Sure, there's the whole getting older thing to consider - but at 26, droopy breasts and fine lines aren't really a concern of mine...yet.

In fact, I've come to believe that the main thing people don't like about birthdays - myself included - is the social gathering that you feel obliged to have as a result. Ok, so maybe 'obliged' is the wrong word. Like the presents, any excuse for a drink-up with friends is fine by me. But whereas the rest of the year you can arrange a mass-matey-get-together and be quite content if it's just you and one other at the end of it all...a birthday is an entirely different matter.

There's something about gatherings - birthday or otherwise - which makes people a little bit flaky. Maybe it's just that you notice who's there more because the celebration is personal, and if someone's not happy enough about you being born to show up in a bar and say so, then surely that speaks volumes about the friendship. Maybe it's just because people genuinely do get the most horrible cold 15 minutes before the designated start time. Maybe it's because they just simply can't be arsed and assume others will be there to paper over their 'no show'. We've all done it, let's be honest.

Either way, when holding a party or gathering in your honour, you will always be subject to the jittery "who will turn up" nerves. Will others feel embarrassed? Will word get round that no one turned up? Will those who do show sit in silence and then make their excuses an hour later? No, of course they won't. One, two, five, or ten of you will all get pissed and forget any one else was ever meant to be there - but try telling yourself that before the event when the 'Ah, I'm really sorry but I can't..." texts start dribbling in.

This Saturday, with many of my friends either abroad or incommunicado, I will be opting for my usual tactic. There will be no designated party, no empty room to fill. I will be sending the name of a bar and a time to a list of people. I will go to said bar with the Boy and a few other 'definites' (read: friends who would get hung, drawn and quartered in Leicester Square if they didn't show), and see what happens. No stress, no worries. No need for excuses. No expectations. Come if you want, don't if you can't.

When it comes to numbers, who's counting?

This year, not me.

Mature adult seeks key

As you well know, I still live with the radio rentals. Not ideal, but once you start bandying the words 'credit crunch', 'recession' and 'unemployment' around, it doesn't sound too bad, does it? Twenty five, living with the parents, no permanent job...Ahh, but we're in a recession. Phew. That's alright then. Doesn't that word just get everyone out of every imaginable situation at the moment? Brilliant, isn't it?

Anyway. Clearly, living at home is not such a bad thing, there are a million and one up-sides so obvious that I don't need to list them. But last week, I actually lost count of the times I said the following sentence in the stroppy teenage voice that hasn't quite left me yet: "Mum! It's fine! For gods sake, I'm nearly 25!"

My birthday celebration on Friday was no exception. By and large I'm given the freedom to come home, or not, whenever I want. I just have to let my mum know what I'm doing before I hit the sack. That could be 9pm, 1am, 3am, whenever I make the decision about how my night will end. But for some reason, my birthday was different. She wanted to know not just hours in advance, but days. Would I be coming home, or staying at a friends? "I don't know" didn't cut it. She thought I should decide right now, on Wednesday, how my night would end on Friday. The reason? Well, if I was going to get 'drunk and disorderly' (her words, I kid you not), then she wanted to know where I was ending up. Fair enough. But...no. I am 25, all responsible n that and I can look after myself. And that is what I shall do.

Yeah...pretty much ballsed up those plans.

True to form, with the night progressing from the pub where we'd started onto a club in Camden, I secured a bed for the night and fired off a text message. "Mum, Staying at hjoffs. sEe you tomnrow". But a couple of hours later, and with another friend also without a bed for the evening, I changed my mind. "Yes! Come back to mine and stay over! We've got toast!" I enthused, as the five remaining party goers hopped into a taxi back to our various homes.

Halfway into the journey, I started scrabbling about in my bag. Hmmm. That's odd. Could have swore...oh. Bit of a pain, that. I picked up my phone.

Ever get that funny feeling when you're on your way home at 4am and you realise you don't have your house keys and have lost a shoe??x

In trying to negotiate a two person entry through a window at 4:30am, I woke up the dogs. Barking ensued. Eventually I gave up and rang the doorbell. More barking. Doorbell again. After a few minutes it opened revealing a robed, sleepy figure.

"Hi dad! Sorrryyyy, forgot my key!" I hobbled in as he looked on, baffled. He started to shut the door; only to see another figure totter through the door after me mouthing "Hellooo, sorrryy!".

My dad sighed and started back up the stairs.

"Happy birthday, Jo."

At 25, I am responsibility personified.

I'm content with my lot

This week I started a new job back in my old stomping ground of W1. It's the company I was previously Credit Crunched from, but I'm back again for onnnne month only. The differences were pretty much immediate. The offices are bright, friendly and not encrusted with the misery of disillusioned workers. Old faces greeted me and new ones introduced themselves without awkwardness. Friends from other offices call up for a morning chat, not just to ask me where the finance reports circa 2006-2007 are kept. Most importantly, gone is the patronising boss who said 'Good! Well done!' every time I "managed" to send an email. Enter a new boss who greeted me with a 'Welcome, Jo!' post-it note attached to a packet of Maltesers. Yeah, you heard. Maltesers. 6 months at the other place Vs 1 month here? When there's chocolate involved, no contest.

Oh alright then, it's not just the job. It's not even the travel plans, which I'm paying the balance on today, or my BIRRRRRTHDAY which happens to be tomorrow. There may be a boy involved. Who I met on Saturday night...and said goodbye to on Sunday afternoon. And said hello again on Tuesday evening...and goodbye again, a bottle of wine, G&Ts and several bowls of tapas later, minutes before I made a dash onto a circle line train that was going the wrong way. I've negotiated this transport system for years, yet it's amazing how often I fail to distinguish between 'east' and 'west'.

But yeah. Just quietly content at this end at the moment, really. Tomorrow the big 2-5 beckons. So for today at least, I'm only 2 years older than him.

Ahem.

Longest sentence in the world

Ready? One minute, the subject is birthday. GO!

Highlights included getting my hair curled in Selfridges about 10 mins before closing...err, except as soon as the girl realised we weren't going to buy the £150 'infra red' (wordever) straighteners, she kind of lost interest a bit... and that was after the boyfriend and I went for a nice Lebanese meal at Levant which is a bloody nice place to eat....after a day at work, where despite having only been there for 4 days they got me CAKE...(yes, when all else fails, tell the other work experience girl it's your birthday, bound to spread the word)....and a card....and a goody bag when I left yesterday....which is now sitting in Charing Cross station because boyfriend, I and a load of mates went out on the town...namely to Gordon's which is a great place to drink if it's not British monsoon season...followed by some queue jumping outside a very cool club underneath London Bridge station...where we found a mystical forest, an old piano, theatre screens, a band, dark tunnels, dolls faces on the wall, a kissing box, a toy dog on a lead, dark corners and lots of alcohol.

Random, eh.

ps.

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP DEDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP

Oh fa gads sake. I need to get better promotion for next year

Mum: You've got a letter here (pointing at a stiff, bright pink rectangular envelope on the side)
Me: I know, I saw.
Mum: What is it?
Me: Urrr...Hmm, I wonder.
Mum: Eh?
Me: [At this point I realised she was seriously baffled] What do you think it is?
Mum: I don't know.
Me: Let's think. What day is it tomorrow?
Mum: [largely blank expression]
Me: I don't know...could it be...a birthday card?

Mum's don't like it when they're caught on the hop. It goes against everything that they're meant to be; reliable, organised, aware of the date and it's significance: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Jo's Birthday. So when my mum's blank expression quickly turned into a look of horror as she uttered 'Oh god, it's not your birthday tomorrow already is it? God, Nige, we haven't got any cards! I forgot the cards! I didn't realise it was so soon!', attempting to implicate my dad in the whole saga, I realised that whilst everyone else knows what day Thursday is, my parents do not.

2 hours to go, all, to hours to go.

And you know this won't be the last you hear of it.

You'll never guess what Thursday is

I love the way that each and every year, I refuse to give my friends (or, more accurately, 248 people, maybe 7 of which I would consider actual, "hows your day been, love" friends) an excuse for not remembering International Jo Day.

My main dilemma this week is how to get maximum word of birthday coverage around the office where I'm laying my cloak of wisdom and service-gratis this week, when I don't really know anyone or have reason to drop it into a casual conversation. Maybe I'll just buy a badge. "Oh whoopsy! Must have forgotton to take it off!". Hmmm. Realistically, I'll probably have to start laying the ground work on Wednesday, maybe Tuesday afternoon...give it time for the news to get to the person who would buy cake, for example.

Probably the office skivvy.

Oh, balls. That's me.