Happy birthday to me?

FOR ME, the day begins with an earthquake – and goes downhill from there!

Not a major earthquake – a mere 3 point something on the whatsits scale – but still enough to wake me from a late and heavy sleep.

When I do finally drag myself into wakefulness I realise it’s my birthday and my heart sinks: the two days of the year I dread most are birthdays and Christmases – something always goes wrong on them.

First thing I learn is that My Good Lady has not only burnt a finger in preparing a chicken pie for my birthday dinner, she’s also taken a nasty tumble in the yard. Nothing broken, thankfully, but she’ll have bruises galore for days to come.

Next, it seems, we’re to wait at home for PD to visit – some official form he needs to fill in and with which he needs some help.

So we wait. And wait. And wait.

All day we wait. Finally, at teatime, I ring PD and ask if we’re still to expect the pleasure of his company. “I thought you’d be coming to the Pub,” he says, “I’ve been waiting for you there!”

We turn our attention to dinner. MGL’s hand is too badly hurt for her to continue with the cooking, so I take over. I pop the chicken pie back in the oven and prepare the veg to go with it. Unfortunately, something goes wrong with the pie – it’s so badly dried out its virtually glued to the pan: it has to be chipped out, bit by bit, and served up in lumps. Luckily I’ve made some gravy, so it’s not a complete disaster – just about par for the day.

This evening, I’m moving the recycling boxes out for tomorrow’s collection when I meet a neighbour, a lady who recently lost her husband. I ask after her – and she bursts into tears!

For the next hour or so, we ply her with wine and give her a sympathetic ear and by the time she leaves she seems a little calmer.

So far it’s being a peach of a day!

MGL’s aches are really coming to the fore, now: her side, her chest, her knee, her hand – all of her, pretty well, is blueing up painfully. “Isn’t it time we had a bit of a celebrate today?” she pleads. So, I nip across to the garage and dig out a bottle of champagne, and finally, finally, we experience something really good, a moment of sanity in an otherwise Escher-esque day.