That's that, then

There you go. The kids are at school, the LOML's gone to work. Normal sort of day really. Oh, and I'm forty. Did I mention?

The countdown's over. The worry might as well cease. Nothing can be done. Fatalism rules at Crisis Towers. "Ah, well, fuck it, never mind" is now the mood of the day. Carry on.

So, no more mithering and brooding; nothing any of us can do about it: first day of rest of. Life begins at. Other trite cliches too, possibly.

Let's raise a quiet, slightly rueful, but nonetheless content and optomistic glass to the world: remorselessly, unstoppably carrying on turning anyway. I'll pop the corks, you fetch the glasses.

"Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear Crisis, happy birthday. To. Meeeeeee"

*much later: wanders off into the warm, velvet darkness, dinner suited, black tie undone round neck, half full bottle of cheap champagne in one hand, other hand in pocket, smiling and whistling quietly to himself along to the classic disco music you can hear over the shouting, singing and laughing of all his friends at the party. Nobody notices him leave except for the beautiful, bright eyed, dark haired girl who knows him better than anyone. She quietly raises a glass to the closed door, smiling, and lets him go. She knows she'll see him later.*