2013 and I

Me:  So 2013, we meet at last.

(2013 twirls moustache, strokes white persian cat and presses button to activate shark pool)

2013:  I've been expecting you.

Me:  Um... Ok.  So, how is this thing going to play out?

2013:  Well, I have some rather delightful things in store.  This year you are going to turn 30, plan a wedding and cancel your gym membership at the earliest opportunity.

Me:  That doesn't sound so bad.  When I saw the sharks I naturally assumed things would be more dire...

(2013 looks somewhat disappointed but carries on regardless)

2013:  Ha!  You know nothing!  For this will also be the year of your final confrontation with the film industry, the year that dictates whether you will make the leap to dreamt of success or hide yourself amongst the tall grass and reassurance of a job with hours and pensions and the the cat vomit-like stench of failure.

(2013 laughs smugly, Persian cat looks moderately offended)

Me:  Actually, a lot of people I know do real work.  Some of them I even like.

2013:  Did I mention you will no longer be cool anymore?

Me:  You really should have talked to 1990 - 2012.  Cool has never really been an issue for me for the same reason that crashing my Boeing 767 was never an issue.

(2013 looks impressed)

2013:  You have a Boeing 767?

Me:  Yes, and it is full of champagne, pork pies and ho's.

2013:  I don't believe you.  You don't dress well enough to own a private plane and nobody eats pork pies with Champagne.

Me:  My hypothetical plane, my rules, besides, the ho's haven't complained and that's all I feed them.

2013:  I knew it!  There is no plane, no ho's and no pies.  You are no longer cool.

Me:  (sighs) So what if most of my friends are over thirty and married?  So what if I own a cat and have a mortgage.  So what if my idea of a great Friday night is watching back-to-back 15 year old episodes of Cold Feet on Lovefilm and commenting on how 90s everything looks whilst debating how it was that Helen Baxendale ever 'happened', watching Arsenal lose to mediocre opposition on Match of the Day and trying to remain witty enough to dupe my fiancé into accidentally sleeping with me.  Is this not the middle class utopia I was promised?

2013:  Face it, you are boring.  You are boring and two stone heavier than in 2010, I asked him.

Me:  You take that back!

2013:  Your hips don't lie, in fact they have a distinctly middle aged waddle these days.

Me:  Fuck you, I worked in theatre in 2010 and was unable to feed myself properly.  My metabolism has slowed but I'm told I look healthier with the weight on so you can fuck right off and misquote Shakira at someone who deserves it.  Besides I still play tennis once per week and relish the two days after it where I can't walk after losing to the nice man in his mid fifties who humours me so patiently.  That waddle is tendonitis.

2013:  Whatever you say.  So, any resolutions to break or is an inevitable slide into middle age the best you can do?

Me:  Yes, I've decided to win at everything, except for arguments with my other half because victory is an impossibility there.  I will make a Hollywood film, train a brace of kick ass screenwriters at university and so help me, I will have that loft conversion so I don't have to sleep with my head and my feet touching opposite walls of my bedroom.  I will complain about the X Factor and about those friends who post baby posset on Facebook.  I will call for the execution of politicians who begin sentences with 'Look' and those who play youtube clips at parties.  I will ignore the sycophantic lobotomised drooling of the mainstream media over the monarchy...

And I may even put up some shelves.

(2013 looks a little perturbed.  It attempts to distract me by throwing its white persian cat into the shark pool and backs away slowly with the half smile one uses to humour a crazy person.)

2013:  Ok, you just do that.

(2013 disappears through a secret door, tripping over its own feet in its haste to escape.)

Me:  Don't go!  I haven't even told you how I plan to spend my Christmas iKea vouchers...

(I Sigh, watching as cat is consumed by sharks.)