I hate birthdays.
It’s the anticipation, the ridiculous beat of my heart that thinks something spectacular/amazing/random might happen.
It’s not to be. Birthdays are a crashing bore. A milestone that says, yep, you are a year older, and what have you got to show for it? How full is your glass?
Eli bombed. He brandished a beautiful box in front of me, and I imagined what it might be, pushing to the back of my head the knowledge of what it actually was.
It was a dressing gown. Again.
Eli did however manage to push the ejector button and parachute to relative safety.
After we got over the issue of the dressing gown (see Barbara on Christmas Day in The Royle Family), the b’day did improve significantly (if not Eli would now be missing one or two body parts).
We drove to London and I was indulged. Too bloody right. If you can’t indulge on your birthday, when can you?
We sat on a pavement (actually on a chair on a pavement) in Notting Hill and watched the beautiful people mince along in their exotic finery and eccentric lives.
We window shopped at Brompton Cross, in my dreams I bought a Chanel handbag, and Eli bought a sculpture from Andrew Martin, and in reality we lunched at Bibendum and choked on the prices of the whelks.
It evolved into a rather enjoyable day (three glasses of fizz helped) and thank God it’s all over for another year. I think Eli would agree with that too. In fact, he’ll be thrilled to know I’m not having any more birthdays, far too stressful…
Back to the Indy Study, the poems are in the bag, now draft and re draft the theory and think about the presentation.