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I felt slightly like I had betrayed myself when I came back from the wedding a couple of weekends ago: my friend M was having a party for his birthday at his brilliantly rickety place in Stoke Newington which was themed around bringing your awful teenage poetry and diaries to read to everyone (something I have in abundance); it was only about 10.30 when we got back into London but I felt quite tired and wasn't going to know anyone there except M and wasn't really drunk enough to push on through so I bailed out and went home. I disappointed myself on a number of levels: not only do I not get to see M very often these days but drunken late-night house-parties are one of the things I miss most about everyone growing up and the chance for me to go to one come around about twice per year at best, most of all though I felt like I'd offended against my self-image of someone who doesn't flake-out on things and worried that this was a sign that I was slowing down. And since I didn't get to read out any angsty teenage diary entries, you get to read an angsty journal entry instead ;-)

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satyrica

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