It's unlikely this pill will be ready by February next year so I do need the list...
By this time next year, when I'll be literally-nearly-40, I would like:
To still be an author.
To have resisted with every molecule in my body the chronic, aching, BURNING desire to add a fourth mini-J to the family. Resisting is currently taking up most of my, and Mr J's, energy. Yes, I know, we're off our trollies. Yes, I know how lovely sleep is. How nice it is to go out for a meal without expressing gallons of milk from size 36G boobs first. How lovely it is to play a board game on a Winter's afternoon, in front of a guardless-fire, as a family, without one of the players eating the dice. And, yes, I'm fully aware of how wonderful it is that I no longer need to wipe any bottoms other than my own. But then again I miss a babe on my hip like a lost limb...oh, bugger, please, someone, give me strength to resist.
To start riding horses again and then convince my husband that owning one would be a good idea. They're small and cheap and you just need to throw them a biscuit once a week, honestly, darling...
To be fit and toned and finally lose the baby weight that I've been waxing on about losing for the last five years. Bejezaaaassssss. Please, you weak-willed so-and-so. JUST DO IT.
To play tennis with (and win a point off) Djokovic.
To share fondue and red wine with Tim Minchin, Dara O'Briain, Ernest Hemingway, Sandi Toksvig, Boudicca, Moriarty from Sherlock and Frida Kahlo.
To get dropped at the top of a very high mountain, K2 or Everest or, um, another very high one with my sister and husband and some skis, and then shout: 'Last one down buys the beer!'
To find Jared Leto at the bottom of that very high mountain with a cup of rummed hot chocolate (Chantilly cream on the top) and some massage oil. And my husband not to mind.
To have got drunk, and survived, on Absinthe.
To have finally used the pasta making machine that I insisted we add to our wedding list (another classic Jennings argument) that is still inside it's box gathering dust.
To be told by the World Health Organisation (I did just write WHO, but didn't want any muso-confuso) that smoking is actually good for you, then take it up again big-styley - 40 filterless Gitanes a day - whilst continuously drinking thick black coffee in a freezing Parisian garret and agonising over my Most Important Work Yet (which will be handwritten and 1200 pages).
To stay at the Ice Hotel, ride a Husky sled, see the Northern Lights (maybe with Motherventing cos it's on her list too) and drink vodka out of a glass made of ice and not get my tongue stuck to the glass made of ice.
To have beaten Jimmy Carr in The Star in a Reasonably Priced Car round the Top Gear track.
To have managed not to Tweet/blog anything libellous or universally offensive.
And, lastly, to have the girls, my husband, friends and family, safe, well, and constantly around to reassure me I'm not totally ridiculous. Oh dear. That sounds needy, doesn't it? Hmmm. Ok, scrap the above list...
By the time I'm actually-40 I hope I can be totally ridiculous and not give a monkey's uncle.
