The Birthday

It has been an interesting birthday, memorable perhaps for mostly the wrong reasons.

My stomach did not want to celebrate getting another year older, and spent much of the day rebelling. As I could not get about for most of the day the children had a day away from school. Oscar was still not entirely right anyway until the afternoon, but Tallulah benefitted by simply having a mother who could not guarantee that the drive to school would not be uneventful for all the wrong reasons. I did not want my forty second birthday to go down in history as the one where mama had to stop in a lay-by to evacuate her bowels. It’s the sort of thing you never live down.

I spent large parts of the day wearing pyjamas, and other parts reading books. I did a little light EBaying and watched The Sound of Music with the children. They had never seen it, and I decided that although they were not at school it was no reason for their education to suffer. Everyone needs to solve a problem like Maria. Even me, and I don’t generally like musicals.

I am reading the letters of Nancy Mitford and Evelyn Waugh. My Mitford obsession burns as bright as ever. It makes me long to whiz back in time and see how the other half live. It is fascinating to me the number of people they knew and were forever socialising with, as well as the vast numbers of people they were related to by marriage or birth. Interestingly there also seems to be a huge amount of divorces in the aristocracy at this time. Most of the footnotes about the various people who crop up in the letters indicate that it was not unusual to marry four or five times for some people. It is fascinating. I am so nosy.

It has not been a bad birthday. It has not been a great historical landmark type birthday. Perhaps I should have evacuated my bowels in a lay-by on the A47 after all, had I wanted that. Were it not for the fact that I have been being spoiled rotten for well over a week now, I have had a corking unbirthday, and presents are still rolling in, I should feel woeful. As it is, I cannot really complain and I have mostly been resigned, and impressed by how nimble I can be in sprinting to the bathroom in a moment of need. Perhaps 42 is not the beginning of the end after all. It was certainly an excellent number for the most esteemed Douglas Adams.

I did feel a bit sad that there was cake, but I was in no fit state to eat it. Then, in late afternoon I threw caution to the winds and ate lots of cake all at once because I was beginning to get quite mardy about things, and I suspected that I wasn’t actually mardy about those things at all, I just needed cake. So I ate it, and I am still here, and that’s good enough for me.

I shall post all birthday pictures in one post when everything is back from the framers. You can browse my collection and imagine me humming the theme tune from Take Hart’s gallery if you are of an age and nationality to know what the hell I’m talking about.

For all of you who sent me gifts, sent me cards, wrote me messages and generally spread a little joie de vivre – I thank you. A birthday does a wonderful job of reminding you quite how many lovely people are in your life. I’m lucky. I’ve got lots of you.

6 responses to “The Birthday

  1. Happy birthday, Katy! And remember, 42 truly is the meaning of life!

  2. Happy happy birthday! (sorry its belated)

  3. Happy Birthday! Mardy cake is very toothsome and good for removing malaise. Looking forward to the photos. Xx.

  4. I just got all nostalgic at the thought of Tony Hart! Is there really such a thing as mardy cake?

  5. I made up the Mardy cake thing – although I do think there may be a connection to Lardy cake which is also rather tasty. I’ll shut up now.

  6. I wish there was such a thing as Mardy cake. I would eat it all!

    Thanks for your lovely birthday greetings. xx

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