25 and 2 weeks

My birthday passed exactly two weeks ago and yet it still lingers, thanks to Royal Mail and Latin timing. I'm not used to receiving presents or people fussing over me. It's an interesting feeling. Actually, it's an amazing feeling to have people do something, simply because you exist. I can only reiterate that 25 was and still is a good birthday. A book of poems from Wonderwoman, a bottle of my favourite wine (Gigondas) from Neel, my very first graphic novel (Frank Miller's '300') from Theo, an evening at Bad Blumau from Mel, an evening at the Sanctuary from Raquel, Andre, and Lei, a care package that included two perfect Argentine alfajores from Andean, and the elusive t-shirt I had been searching for from Celeste (the 'Fuck y'all I'm from Texas' one). The distance has already worn thin the blood relations, yet this new family does me fine. At least once a day I wonder why I'm doing what I'm doing, if London and this job is worth the sweat and tears. And then something happens, a text, an email, a gift, a hug, a proffered drink, and I remember how loved I am, how lucky I am.