I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

It's the morning after a victorious weekend, and I feel slightly out of sorts. Not least because I was supposed to be home today, pulling a sickie, but instead I am at work where I am actually working, worse luck. I decided last minute that I wasn't feeling bad enough to warrant not getting paid for a day's work (the life of a temp: you could be run over by a bus, your lungs collapsing and your heart arrhythmia-ing and you still don't get paid a penny's sick leave). Shoes and I had previously concocted the Great Monday Off, whereby we would both suddenly come down with a mysterious ailment which would render us unable to come into the office, although we would have made an heroic effort (involving getting out of bed to grab the phone in order to call in sick). We had visions of spending the day curled up under the duvet, sipping hot chocolate and watching 24 whilst the elements raged outside.

Anyway, our night on Saturday didn't quite go as planned and we felt 100% this morning instead of badly fatigued and hungover, so it seemed a waste of good sick days - paid or not - to stay at home. Also, the elements were hardly raging; it's just annoyingly cold. So we struggled out of bed at 6:50am through pitch darkness - already, and it is only October - and made our way to work like good little rats. Shoes the skiver has since gone home, after looking suitably sorrowful enough to elicit sympathy from his manager who insisted he take the afternoon off. Honestly, why I can't look pale and tired just by longing for my bed and a bit of UFC? He's quite pleased with himself, which perhaps accounts for at least some of my crankiness.

The weekend was great, although somehow not the super weekend I expected it to be. Of course, I am so incredibly proud to be South African right now; not that I'm ever not so, but being in England while we won that trophy feels that extra bit gratifying. I have a constant urge to stick out my tongue and waggle my fingers behind my ears whilst chanting "neh neh neh neh neh!" in the manner of the 5 year old bully who always hogs the best swing at breaktime. I have been very sporting, however, and I have not once said I told you so, despite putting up with some serious lip on Friday. I feel that at this point, words are unnecessary; our boys did the talking with the ball (ok, so it wasn't the most exciting game and we didn't score a try, but honestly, when you win the world cup, who really cares?). I won't lie, I had a tear in my eye as John Smit hoisted that trophy for the first time. Our country needed this, our spirits needed this, and even though I know it will not have even half the impact of our 1995 win, it's still a big moment for us and a day when we can all feel united in celebration.

Then England's hopes were dashed yet again as Lewis Hamilton saw the F1 Championship slip from his grasp. This was another day of good news for me, as I am a staunch Kimi Raikonnen supporter and it made my day to see him finally win the title he has had to fight very hard for over the last few seasons. So why the not so super weekend?

I don't know! The party at Koko on Saturday night was fun, but we were tired from a long day of drinking and adrenaline, and we left pretty early. The whole day yesterday I felt a bit flat, even when I was watching the F1 interviews and I saw Kimi give the first genuine smile I have ever seen (he is well known for his lack of emotion; they don't call him the Iceman for nothing). I was thinking a lot last night about getting old. Not old old, but just hitting 30 and the years beyond. I was imagining myself with wrinkles, watching as gravity takes its toll on my body, and I was getting quite heavily depressed by my thoughts.

This might all be down to the fact that next week is La Poo's twenty first, which made me think in turn of Scarf's twenty first that she is having when we go to home in Jan. I'm hardly over the hill yet, but suddenly I realise why there is this eternal quest for youth. How can you look at a person 7 years younger than you and not wish that you had those extra years too? I don't wish to be younger really, and I don't wish to be more like my younger friends - I will be very clear here; I don't want to regress in terms of knowledge, experience or maturity. I do however, want to be 27 when Scarf turns 27, instead of the 34 that I will be. When I turn 30, she will be turning 23. How am I supposed to not hate that? It's a terrible thing to admit, but I am completely jealous that she has all this extra time that I can never get back. Maybe this is what they mean when they say stick with people your own age.

So there you go: I had a nice weekend, surrounded by all my friends here in London; I was victorious in terms of the teams I support and I even went clubbing wearing a brand new dress and boots which, if I do say so myself, were pretty hot. And all I can think about is how I'm going to get old and my friends are going to stay young (relatively speaking), and I don't have a career to speak of, and I'll be 30 in 2 years and 5 months and I'm still stuck temping in London after more than 2 years here....

Is it the winter blues, or is it just me?