What’s the good of a birthday (as my dear Dad used to say) if you can’t do what you like?
It doesn’t take
a lot to please me, either. I am not the kind of gal who demands diamonds or other sparkly items on my birthday. Give me a clutch-full of birthday cards and I’m a Happy Bunny.
Today, I played my usual game of trying to guess who had sent which card from the writing on the envelope. Generally I am very good at this game and can guarantee a 90% pass rate. This morning, for some reason (could it be age?) my customary skill deserted
me and I failed on at least half a dozen envelopes. Mr B found this rather more amusing than was kind, I thought.
My lovely brother Skyped me
while I was eating my breakfast Shredded Wheat to wish me a Happy Birthday. I could only hope he didn’t notice that I was still in my dressing gown and hadn’t so much as drawn a sketchy hair-brush through my sleep-tangled locks. In other words,
I looked a bit of a mess, birthday or not. My brother, on the other hand, looked pretty dapper. He looked as if he had been up for hours, had been for a long walk down to the newsagent’s to fetch his newspaper, cooked breakfast, washed up and completed
the crossword – all in the time it had taken me to rise from my bed and prepare my Shredded Wheat. And, let's face it, Shredded Wheat doesn't take too much preparing.
We took a box of Celebration chocolates to Choir and I handed them out to all my fellow warblers. It probably didn’t help our singing, everyone having their mouths full of chocolate, but they seemed to go down well with everybody. Except
that is, with Myra, who organises our choir sessions, and who said I should have bought Roses chocolates because then she could have had an orange cream. There’s no pleasing some people. At the end of the session, Morag our pianist struck up with
Happy Birthday and everyone sung to me. (Mr B had had a quiet word with her beforehand, I discovered later.) Now that’s what I call a birthday treat.
have always liked the fact that I share my birthday with the anniversary of D Day and never more so than today. It might seem a strange way to celebrate but we have spent much of today watching the coverage from Normandy, marvelling at the incredible and inspiring
stories from 70 years ago. The daring, the courage, the bravery, the sheer ingenuity, the terrible cost. We have twice been to Arromanches, once on our own, once with our Canadian cousins Bob and Jackie. It has been fascinating seeing on our television
screen the hotel where we stayed, the museum we visited, the cafe where we ate, the road we drove along (very slowly as at the time Mr B was still trying to remember which side of the road he should drive on.) We are very, very glad we went to pay our own
respects twice upon a time.
For several years we used to arrange our annual holiday for the week of our anniversary and my birthday. The advantage of this was
that it did not require any major planning on Mr B’s part to give me, the Birthday Girl, a good day out on both days. We did, indeed, enjoy some spectacular and memorable birthday treats. Strangely, however, I missed being at home, having the family
come to visit, long chats on the telephone, being sung to. Plus I had to wait until I came home to open all my birthday cards...
This evening it is
our Friday evening cribbage group. We are taking a carrot cake along to share, as a kind of informal birthday cake. I would quite like to take my musical cake knife, a gift from grand-daughter Eleanor who knows just the kind of present which will please me
most. It plays Happy Birthday, the Wedding March, For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow and We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Mr B says if I take the cake knife then he is not coming with me. Reluctantly I am leaving the cake knife behind though I might just
play a quick burst of Happy Birthday before we leave the house.
What’s the good of a birthday if you can’t do what you like?