Birthdays

The day before a birthday can be a little depressing.

 If you are under thirteen then you can be wildly excited, bouncing around and squeaking about birthdays. If you know someone who shares your birthday (or nearly shares it) you have an excuse for shouting high-pitched happy birthdays at them, knowing they will return the sentiment. However, once you get beyond your teenage years this behaviour isn't seemly and so you reign it in. You also remember the times when you spent your birthday nursing a you-got-too-excited-didn't-you-fever.

As you get older everything gets a bit more depressing and marking the passing of the years doesn't fill you with as much excitement as it used to. After I had my own children I struggled to remember my age and at birthdays people always ask. One year, my son told his reception class teacher that it was my birthday and that I was 83. She laughed at him but he held firm confirming my birth year of 1921. When she told me the story I shrugged, I could have been 83. Who knew? I'd stopped counting.
So I decided to pick a number and stick to it. I told my daughter that when I died I'd like her to stand up and say, "It's such a shame Mum only lived to forty two." I said that it would be funny and everyone needs a laugh at a funeral. She said it would only be funny if I was really old when I died.

Last year we celebrated my birthday. 42 for the 9th time is something to celebrate. I didn't celebrate as much as someone might a 50th. I've seen friends have parties and spa weekends with the girls but I just went for a family meal and I didn't take a book.

Waking up this morning and realising that tomorrow is the anniversary of my birth could add to my already gloomy mood but the brilliant thing about picking a number and sticking to it is that you can just miss one.

This blog is an apology to my colleagues who could be expecting cake.