Celebrational!
AT 27-years-old, I was a party pooper. All it took was a piñata, a stick, and a case of middle child syndrome. My housemate, Jess and I had a party on the weekend to celebrate our birthdays. It was Disney themed and glorious. Speaking of Disney, I think I should risk being considered a bit daft and let you know that when I was a kid I used to think Disney was spelt D.I.S.N.E.P because I couldn't understand the cursive on the Y. An easy mistake to make…but quite awkward when you go through most of your childhood thinking a man's name is Walt Disnep. So anyway, Jess and I went out shopping to get all the bells and whistles to ensure the Disney or Disnep theme was adhered to appropriately. Jess insisted we get a piñata and I wasn't one to stand in her way. As the party evening rolled on, it was finally time to hit the piñata. Somehow in my rather merry state (I blame the punch concoction Jess prepared) I insisted I go ...