It's my annual 25th birthday.

I brought in (my wife's) home-made baking for my colleagues.
They came running.
But they thought I said home-bake.
Which is something different all together.
Apparently.

25 was a very good year.

I still had a six-pack stomach,
a hairstyle,
157 more brain cells,
a bomb shelter,
a motorbike,
motorcycle boots,
a distrust of anyone over 30,
a metabolism that enabled me to eat whatever the fuck, whenever the fuck, however the fuck I wanted and never get fat,
something resembling prestige,
and a mobile phone about four times as large as my current one
(which was quite useful for bludgeoning parking wardens to near-death)
and I had never hit/been hit by a car/SUV
(Unless you count that time I rolled across the bonnet of an advancing car, but that was just to prove what a hard-core Ninja I was...)

Actually,
I like my life even better now. I'm like a good bottle of home brew beer that just gets better and more potent with age.
But if my grandmother can be forever 21, then I can be eternally 25. Well... 25 until I can no longer con people into believing I'm 25. In which case I'll tell them I'm really 26.

Shut up.

(Perhaps my job would be easier if I didn't keep going on about the Olden Days...)