Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that it is my 28th Birthday today, and that I am completely weirded out by that, and that I don’t really want to think about it, but that it keeps appearing in my head like some spectre of impending death. Let’s also ignore these disturbing figures: Ten years since I left school, two years until thirty, several betrayals, seven years on the net. Please god, let us ignore much of what I’ve done this decade: somewhere in the region of six hundred trips to the cinema [working out at about £3000], ten different homes, innumerable arguments with my mother, around twenty flatmates and enough coca-cola to submerge a small country. Finally, let us be sure to ignore my accomplishments: a degree, a couple of abortive relationships, three and a half years working on a doctorate that never came to anything, nine months of temping, a journalism re-training course, five or six websites of greater or lesser quality, and a minor depressive episode.
I should put it all into an Excel spreadsheet. Or perhaps a web stats package. Referrals, impressions, hits.