how a journal entry
really gets written

the final sentence in this entry is

She has though. And I'd love to wake up in 35 years time and make her breakfast on her birthday.

a nice note to end on isn't it?

debbie often checks on my entry as i write it. it's a very minor pet hate, as i can't write with someone looking over my shoulder reading, so as i heard her come through the kitchen door, ostensibly to go to the toilet, but really to check on the entry, i tagged the following on to the entry.

She has though. And I'd love to wake up in 35 years time and make her breakfast on her birthday. Of course she'll be sucking it through a straw and drooling from the side of her mouth by then.

she hit me on the side of my head until i removed the last bit.

editors.

every writer needs one.

One part of me is still slumped down on the bench at courtside, sweating, cramping, out of breath, head down not wanting to talk to anyone. Team mates coming by, saying "well done", "it's been a good season" and I don't want to hear that crap right now.

What I want to do is go inside myself, berate myself once again for getting close enough to smell victory but not taste it, think of all the times I didn't put in the effort I should have, and wonder if I want to go through this again.

Yes we lost.

We never were in the game, out-played, out-hustled - straight out beaten.

And I'm sorry if this sounds like whining over a stupid basketball game, but no matter what they tell you, and no matter how much you might, one day, learn from it, losing is never fucking easy. And in the final you don't come second, you lose.

But, you know, it's over a day since the game, and another part of me has had some beers with my team mates at the prizegiving, and shaken the hands of the winning team, and talked about coming back next year and realised that the distance our team travelled from the start of the season to the end has been impressive.

And I also know, because I've lost in this position before, that the world doesn't end, the sun still rises and you still have to go to work Monday morning.

Most important, I've enjoyed the year a lot, and the team has been a lot of fun, and the day winning and losing doesn't mean as much to me as it does now is the day I'll stop playing.

It's Debbie's birthday today. 35 years old. As is our custom - a custom brought on by lack of money, laziness or a combination of both - I haven't got a present for her and we haven't done anything to celebrate it.

But, big brownie points for me, I remembered it was her birthday before she did this morning, so got to cuddle and kiss her and wish her happy birthday before she had to remind me. And I made her breakfast. Fresh fruit and yoghurt, raisin toast and tea, sitting on the front porch in the sun.

Sometimes small celebrations mean the most. And I will buy her a present. Honest. Sometime.

Deb asked me today if I thought she'd aged well. There's certain questions male partners of females should never answer. Things like, "do you think I'm fat?", or "how do I look in this?". "Do you think I've aged well" is pretty much in that category.

She has though. And I'd love to wake up in 35 years time and make her breakfast on her birthday.