27 Club

I’ve had some strange stuff happen in my 27th year, much of which I don’t want to put on here, but it started with the book deal with Tor UK / Pan Macmillan (awesome), and then this almost Ballardian moment:

I walked away from this with a few cuts to my hand and a couple on my forehead, and a bruised ego. The passangers, two people I work with, were fine too. I took the brunt of the strike as the other car hit my door. What I was also pissed off about is that my copy of M John Harrison’s Travel Arrangements—which I keep to hand should I be waiting for any reason in the car and don’t want my brain to turn to mush—got totally trashed. I hate it when good books have to go.

I was chatting to one of my oldest friends about the 27 Club, which is the rock and roll year of death. We used to think it we passed this, then we were safe for a while. Well, last night, as you can see above, I appeared to have tried my best to join. I’ve been feeling strange at this age—not so much worries about getting older in life, but I don’t know what. An adjustment, nostalgia for a non-specific time. This was interesting, not that I usually go in for astrology, but I kinda like what it offers, if anything.