Half an hour ago, I ran into my sister's room, gave her a high ten, then bounded downstairs and proceeded to shake my booty like there was no tommorow. But just for that minute. Then I ran back upstairs like nothing happened.

I also txted my local (and favourite) radio station. Anonymously.

How did you celebrate 20:08 20-08-2008?

( Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my check-out girl; language is a complimentary moist lemon scented cleansing square, or a handy freshen-up wipette; language is the breath of God; language is the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light, as you pluck from an old bookshelf, a half forgotten book of erotic memoirs; language is the creek on a stair; it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party; it's the warm wet trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of charred panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl; it's cobwebs, long since overrun by an old wellington boot. )