I told a colleague at work that I was turning 30 in a week and her face dropped. She said “Oh, I spent the whole of my 30^th birthday in bed crying.” Er, thanks for that, you certainly know how to make a girl feel good.

And so as the big day approaches will I be hiding out in bed crying my eyes out? I very much hope not. Especially as I’m booked in for an 85 minute massage and a day of pampering with my family – lush!

Many friends of mine have turned 30 in recent years and no one’s had a meltdown or spontaneously combusted, they haven’t suddenly become hermits or taken to wearing cardigans so I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to worry about. Plus, because of aforementioned friends I sort of feel like I already am 30 (in fact when playing Million Pound Drop online at the weekend I placed myself in the 30-39 category without even thinking!).

Mostly at the minute I’m just looking forward to all of my celebrations and the trip to Vegas andSan Franciscothat’s on the horizon. Perhaps when the excitement’s died down I will contemplate my life and get depressed but I can’t see it somehow. I had a wicked time in my 20s and I learnt some important lessons about who I am and who I want to be. I’ve got great people around me, a job I love (and where they seem to love me) and a lovely man to keep me company – so pretty much everything I could ask for really. And that’s not a bad place to be.

So, my 20s will go out with a bang BUT my 30s will be welcomed in with the same enthusiasm – bring on the cardigans!

Like Odysseus I have undertaken an epic journey, fraught with challenges and dangers, not to mention a hell of a lot of confusion.

With the big 3-0 looming (literally, it’s casting a shadow over the sun it’s so close) I have decided that 2012 will be the year I take on Ulysses head on. I purchased the behemoth of a novel back in 2004 after finishing my degree. My reasoning was it would be a way of continuing my literary education beyond the walls of university. In reality, it’s been used as a bookend for the past eight years. During that time it’s become a bit of a running joke that I’ll never actually tackle it, but as well as that it’s become something of an albatross around my neck. Every time I search the shelves for reading matter, it’s there, mocking me, undermining my intelligence with its sheer bulk.

So, this is the year it’s getting read. I will conquer this epic beast, even if it takes me the whole goddamn year (which is quite likely).

Armed with Cliff’s Notes on the book I’ve battled through the first seven chapters and…actually quite enjoyed them. I’ve read Joyce before and I’ve always struggled with his ‘stream of consciousness’ writing, but I’ve just decided to enjoy the writing and not worry too much about understanding all the details (after all, unless you can read French or have studied Greek literature you stand little chance). Reading the study guide alongside it has helped to fill in the gaps, pointed out the themes and illuminated the references to Homer’s The Odyssey. That’s certainly helped, although when cross referencing it regularly feels like the Editor (Cliff?) and I have been reading completely different novels.

If nothing else it feels good to be facing a challenge I’ve been putting off for the past eight years. I hope this proactive attitude spreads into other areas of my life this year – fingers crossed. And fingers crossed that by the end of the year I can report that I’ve actually finished the bloody thing.

Being of a certain age I’ve been attending quite a few hen do’s of late. In many ways I wish I had’ve been around 40 years ago when hen do’s would have taken place in our early 20’s and I would have had more stamina (a 3am finish you say? Pass the duvet). But having said that I doubt vodka shots and larging it in Ibiza were the done thing back in the 70’s so perhaps there are some benefits to post-noughties do’s.

In much the same way as weddings going to all these get togethers gives me loads of ideas for things I’d like when (and if) my own comes around. And also I’m getting to see a few of the pitfalls of the game. So here are my hen do’s and don’ts – for hens and their gaggle of girlies.

Do

• Play the Mr & Mrs game – nothing cures a hangover like finding out which sexual position your bezzie mate’s other half prefers. Even more cringe-worthy if you’re related to either of them!

• Have a theme – themeing and fancy dress helps you to stand out from the crowd and get some attention for the hen (and any of the single ladies in the pack). Everyone loves a hen do on a night out right?

• Check out your accommodation – websites don’t always tell the whole truth so try to visit the location if you can. Even if the cottage is up a three mile dirt track through Blair Witch style woods at least the girls will all come prepared (with flashlights and sick bags).

• Take the correct footwear – or risk being the team of girls paintballing in bright white trainers – nuff said. Could we have been any more of a blatant target?

• Make sure there are willies – it’s the one night of your monogamous life when you’re actively encouraged to look at/touch hot men’s private parts. Oh and your girly friends get to enjoy the same perks – result!

Don’t

• Get bladdered on the first night – we all know night one of a hen weekend is the warm up evening and yet there’s such a temptation to settle into the hot tub and get smashed on a couple of bottles of wine. You will regret it. Especially if you have to go paintballing at 9am in the morning – barf!

• Rock up to the family area of Wetherspoons at 6pm with a blow up willy – children will cry, their parents will give you evils and you will feel guilty. Back out on the street however, it is perfectly acceptable.

• Forget your camera – hen nights always produce classic photos, don’t miss them!

• Be the phantom puker – the morning after the night before and there’s a pile of stinking sick in the living room. Whodunnit? If it was you, face the shame and come clean – oh and then clear the stuff up.

• Attempt small talk in the limo home – it’s 2am, I’m pissed and knackered, I do not want to know about your new house or get to know you in any kind of meaningful way. I just want to zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

As the big 3-0 looms on the horizon like a wrinkly ogre of doom my friends and I have begun discussing the fact that we feel like we’ve grown out of a lot of things we used to love. For instance I lamented to one friend that perhaps one day I would have to say goodbye to my baggy jeans. Another friend and I discussed the fact that we have no idea what magazines to read anymore. Both regular purchasers of Company magazine for years all of a sudden the ‘real life success stories’ about 24 year olds who own their own businesses have ceased being ‘inspiring’ and instead become purely irritating (I’m sorry, how many people in their 20s earn over £60k a year, really???!).

So we’ve outgrown some of these things. I can accept that. Once upon a time I also grew out of Just 17 and Global Hypercolour t-shirts. The problem is, what the hell do we replace them with?

When it comes to the magazine conundrum, you’d think there’d be plenty to choose from. We’ve considered them all but they’re all either too young (Company/Cosmo), too fashion focused (Glamour etc) or too old (Good Housekeeping). We’ve considered the likes of Red but even that seems to be aimed at those with kids and certainly towards the back end of their thirties.

That’s the problem it seems. Thirties are the new twenties or so the saying goes. These days at 30 we don’t all have kids, have a husband and own a house. Many of us don’t even have careers we are hugely successful in; some of us are still trying to work out who the hell we are and exactly what we want from life.

So we’ve moved on but it seems perhaps the media hasn’t followed us. It looks to me like I’m entering some kind of odd cultural wasteland, where I don’t feel there’s anywhere I really ‘fit’.

As well as magazines, I struggle with my radio station choice. I have a two hour daily commute and use the radio to keep me sane. I listen to Radio 1, mainly for the chat and amusing DJs, but there is something distinctly sad about listening to One Direction and promos every ten minutes for The Teen Awards – ie. their core target audience – and realising that your own teenage years are ten years behind you!! And yet I can’t bring myself to switch to Radio 2 – I’m not ready for Cliff Richard just yet.

I can’t help but think there’s a serious gap in many different markets and were I a media mogul I’d be getting in there quick-smart. We’re not asking for much – fun with an edge of intelligence and something to inspire us. I’d love to hear from you if you agree.

It could be something about my age, or perhaps my social circle, but it appears that it has become socially acceptable, and even cool, to bake. From Facebook updates about apple crumbles to close up twitpics of your latest batch of cupcakes, it seems like everyone’s at it – and making it common knowledge. 

I guess it’s inevitable that with the recession and people having less money to go out, combined with campaigns like ‘Love Food Hate Waste’ and a revival of kitsch arts and crafts that baking would be next in line for a come back. And what’s not to love – a few minutes of toil and after half an hour or so’s baking time you have a scrummy cake to get stuck into. Plus I’m finding it’s bringing out my generous side (so I do have one!) as I’m handing out my creations left, right and centre (get in line girlies, they’re coming your way), mainly because otherwise I will eat them all and become the size of an actual house. 

Most recently I had a bake-a-thon in aid of Mum’s Macmillan fundraising coffee morning, batch baking two banana and chocolate cakes and a slab of flapjack-esque ‘blondies’. Whilst attempting this after a 13 hour day at work is perhaps not advisable they did actually taste pretty yummy and helped my mum to raise almost £2,000 for Macmillan, along with all the other baking wonders brought to the table, some by my own generous friends. 

My mum is amazed that I somehow went from a girl who hated the idea of cooking to someone who actually enjoys cooking from scratch and takes pleasure (and peace) from baking. So join the revolution, get those tins out and get creaming that butter and sugar. I bet you’ll agree they taste ten times better than anything you’ll find in Tesco.

For the first time in my life it’s been me doing the interrogation, sitting on the other side of the table and asking the questions of prospective employees. Writing the interview questions was an eye opener, as well as raiding Google and noting down all the obvious ones, I found myself thinking back to the questions that had caught me out at previous interviews and slipping them in for good measure. I told myself that it was because they were pertinent and deep reaching, but really I think it was a case of wanting my newbies to go through the traumas I had. Mean? Perhaps, but I worked my butt off to get into the world of publishing and I think any future employee needs to be willing to do the same – and that all starts with having smart answers to tough questions.

So, I learnt a lot from the process (for instance, the ones who interview well can’t always proofread well) and I have a new starter beginning on Monday. Hurrah!

But there’s always been one interview question that’s perturbed me most – ‘where do you see yourself in five years?’. Not only is it so easy to give a wrong answer (will the answer ‘I want your job’ land you nods of approval for your go-getting attitude or get your interviewer on the defensive and ready to kick you out the door?) but it’s a concept I find challenging at the best of times. Cos, well, ultimately I have no idea where I’ll be in five years’ time.

Numerous friends and family members can recite their own five year plans as if they’re reading out their Chinese order, and hell, many of them are well on their way to achieving their goals, but I dunno, maybe it just doesn’t work for me. I have rough plans and at the beginning of each year I outline my goals for the coming 12 months but thinking five whole years ahead is a bit scary. I might not even be here in five years for all I know! And it gets scarier as 30 approaches – cos all women of my age know that when 30’s around the corner, you gotta have a five year plan. If you want to have kids you’re going to have to make that decision and do something about it, ideally in the next five years. Eeps. There’s nowt like pressure is there?

But perhaps there’s something to be said for living spontaneously, as long as you don’t regret anything you missed out on doing, because you were too busy to plan in the dirty nappies. And that’s always the worry – that regret that you can’t see from where you’re standing now but five, or ten years, down the line it could be a different story.

So I didn’t ask the five year question to my interviewees, it seemed unfair to expect them to have an answer to something I can honestly say I don’t. As long as they do a good job and pull their weight, we’ll go with the flow and see where they end up in five years. That is if I’m still there managing them and not on a beach in Australia or knee deep in dirty nappies.

On Friday I took on 1,085 metres of mountain, all in the name of charity. I got roped into it by members of themarketingteam at work a few months back and it seemed like a laugh initially – a good opportunity to get the whole team pulling together and inevitably drink too much the night before attempting our ascent. But as the day drew nearer and I heard tales of people who’d struggled with the mountain before I began to worry – I know it’s hardly Kilimanjaro but being as unfit as I am I knew it would take it out of me.

Anyway, it turns out I was ill the week the climb was scheduled. I could have got out of it then and there but I felt I had to honour my commitment to the climb, especially when so many of my lovely friends had spent their well earned cash sponsoring me. So I twisted Kev’s arm into keeping me company and we took off for the top.

After losing time on the M54, stuck behind swarms of indie kids crawling their way into the V Festival, we made it to the bottom of the Pyg Track, one of the steepest tracks to the top (Kev’s idea not mine – I was quite happy with the boring but less challenging Llanberis track). After half an hour’s climbing I was flagging, bright red with my heart pounding and I wondered if I’d make it at all. Luckily things levelled off slightly for a bit so I could get my breath back, but as we approached the top the wind picked up so much I was clinging to rocks for dear life and twisting my ankle with almost clockwork regularity.

Finally, after 2 hours 15 mins we scaled the ridge (wayhey) and reached the pinnacle. Hurrah! Only thing was we couldn’t see a damn thing for the clouds (in fact in the pictures we could be anywhere!) and the train to the top had just arrived which meant the holiday-making grannies were swarming to the highest point, elbowing us shattered climbers out of the way as they went. After a quick rest at the café (cue yet more granny elbowing) and some overpriced hot drinks we began our descent, which we completed in 1 hour 50 mins.

My hips and thighs have been aching ever since (who needs a crosstrainer) but it really was worth it. It’s a great achievement to have not only raised a joint total (with the rest of the team) of over £1,400 for Women’s Aid but it was a great personal achievement to reach the top – one more thing to cross off the ‘things to do before I turn 30’ list!

Thanks to everyone who’s sponsored us and if you haven’t done it yet it’s not too late – http://www.justgiving.com/midcounties-society-marketing. It’s for a great cause. Now, I have a well earned date with my sofa!

Marriage. Every man and their dog seem to be getting hitched at the minute (hopefully not to each other). Even my old favourite Bruno Mars. Luckily most of my friends enjoying the pleasures that nuptials can bring have thought it through rather more thoroughly than Mr Mars, whose ‘Marry Me’ proposal appears to be fuelled simply by a combination of booze and the horn.

I have been invited to 5 weddings this year (surprisingly not Bruno’s) and it seems everyone’s at it: tying the knot, attaching the ol’ ball and chain. I feel I’m becoming something of a veteran wedding-attendee and find myself mentally scoring different elements of these big days like some kind of one man ‘Four Weddings’ show (only without the offer of a honeymoon as a prize for my favourite). Which colours work best, which kind of venue encourages most interaction, who to invite for the best party atmosphere, which services bring a tear to the eye and which don’t quite hit the mark. But the most valuable thing I’ve taken away from these wedding experiences is that the best weddings are the ones where the couple are obviously mad for each other but also the ones where you can see the couple’s influences in every aspect of the day. The people who haven’t necessarily bowed to tradition but done things their own way, in a space selected and decorated to please them.

A good friend of mine even did her own speech alongside the words laid on by her father, husband and best (wo)man. This is something I’ve always wanted to do – for the sheer fact that marriage was an institution designed to pass ‘property’ from father to new hubbie without any comment from the silent bride. Let’s break down those barriers and speak up. Why shouldn’t the bride have a voice on her wedding day, especially when she’s usually done all the work?!

As I’ve attended these many weddings (and still more to come in the next few months – unless I am now disinvited!) I’ve picked up tips, gathered ideas and been making mental notes to apply to my own wedding (if and when that day comes). But all I really know is that I want the process to be as fun as possible and the day to be individual and full of my favourite people – preferably with plenty of drink inside them and ready to party. And what one thing will I make sure is not a part of my big day? ‘Come On Eileen’! I swear if the DJ plays that song I’ll swing for him. That and anything by Bruno Mars.

Image copyright – Andrew English

I’m obsessed by it, I love it, I hate it and it’s everywhere. Stuff!

We’ve spent days, weeks, months clearing out our house and still there’s pointless crap everywhere. I don’t get it and I don’t understand how it gathers at the corners of every room: constant, menacing and ever present.

It seems I’m trapped in a desirous quandary, one half of me being drip fedmarketingthat makes me spend hours trawling online clothes shopping sites, telling me that if I buy this dress or those trousers I’ll feel spectacular, and the other half conjuring tantalising images of houses with clean lines and minimal clutter. Then there’s a third half of me (maths never was my strong point) that wants to be rid of these obsessions with living a lifestyle I’ve been conditioned to want to live. Oh and there’s always my wallet calling out that I can’t afford that waistcoat or those clever storage solutions from Ikea.

Last night, after an hour’s aimless lusting over countless outfits I jokingly requested Kev save me from my consumerism, to which he promptly pushed and held down the off button on my laptop. After I’d ranted at him for losing my virtual page in the Next directory (and swore at him on behalf of the techies at work) I was actually pretty glad to have the rest of my evening back. Perhaps just switching off is the key to escaping our lustful thoughts, whether literally or mentally. Taking the time to do something constructive or consider everything you already have is perhaps the key to counteract wanting ever more. Because really, where will it ever end otherwise?

I recently returned fromIrelandwhere we spend a week, half in a cottage by the sea on the west coast and half in the buzzing centre of Belfast.

During the visit I realised I’m really frigging bad at scrabble (no excuse really considering my job) but I have a half decent golf swing, when chilli powder goes out of date it loses all its flavour (but paprika doesn’t) and that I know far too little about the Troubles that blighted Ireland for many decades (something I now plan to put right).

The trip was both peaceful and invigorating, shocking and inspiring.

At the cottage Kev’s sister and I chatted endlessly about growing your own veg, making jam, sewing cushions and generally being self-sufficient and once again I came away inspired to take some of these positive actions on board. I already have a list of creative projects I’d like to try. Then in Belfast we spend a few days seemingly skipping from one atmospheric, unusual and individual café to another (eating far too much cheesecake) and it not only gave me some fantastic ideas for interior design (check out the picture above of Made in Belfast – gorgeous food and gorgeous place) but also reminded me of what’s so great about many British cities. The unique little cubbyholes that stink of personality and attract those looking for something beyond chain restaurants.

Unfortunately that then reminded me that Milton Keynes has none of these, having as little culture as it has history and cheap to rent buildings. It is this that would make me leave MK, that craving for a little slice of quirk. But until I do I will be working on my interior design, recycling as much as I can, and creating my own sense of peace and uniqueness within my own four walls.