A couple of days ago I was celebrating my birthday (though “celebrating” may be an overstatement at a time where one finds oneself under house arrest and in fear for one’s life). But I tried my best to be jolly and braved the potentially deadly delivery man to have pizza delivered onto the lap of my family (the second option was Chinese but the nearest takeaway joint was in Wuhan and I just didn’t feel that adventurous). The family dug in, regardless of the risks. I am happy to report we are all alive and well, including Dog.
Daughter baked a black forest gateau. It fell apart on contact with room temperature, but it tastes decadently delicious. It will be the end of me, if the Panettone doesn’t get me first. There are of course Thorntons Continental chocolates to finish me off if everything else fails. I am a bit like that old weed that won’t go without a fight (“old” being the key word here now that I am suddenly a year older than I was only a few days ago).
I have just realised that I was supposed to write about my birthday celebrations, but ended up contemplating ways of doing away with myself. This may be because I have been up to my ears in poison and murder – editing my new cozy crime mystery. But that is done now, and I need to move on before I start testing my food on Dog (she’s got enough on her plate as it is).
Back to birthday celebrations, or rather to the idea of getting old(er). It isn’t a particularly pleasing prospect. I decided to think back to my younger days. I took myself back to times when getting older was something to look forward to. For me, a winter baby from a cold northern country, childhood birthdays meant snow, cold and short days, with the prospect of Christmas just round the corner. I remember fondly the day when I graduated from mittens to five-finger gloves, and painstakingly, through trial and error, worked out which damned finger went where. I remember the birthday when my toddler double-blade skates were replaced with real ice skates with white lace up boots. I remember two-day old snow crunching under my feet and frost crusting on the tassels of my scarf. I remember smashing my nose on my first skiing adventure. They are such dear memories of my wintry birthdays from many years ago when winter meant snow and ice.
So, snow or not, happy birthday to me. I may have a cake with icing for pudding today. Let’s age gracelessly!