It is my birthday. I am forty-six years old. It’s a bit of a neither flesh, fowl, nor good red herring sort of age, but it will do.
The day raced away from me like a brumby on sunlit plain. It is 6.45pm and only now have I sat down to write this.
It was a day of great loveliness. There were cards. There was an enchanting birthday breakfast. There were flowers. There were telephone calls. Stanley the Dog staged a little parade of adorableness. There were gales, so the horses put on a good old bronco show for me, wild as the wind itself. There were really good presents.
I even did some proper work. I went to one very serious meeting, driving up the valley with my notebook and my business face on, and matters of import were discussed and then an unexpected celebratory drink was produced. There was no great birthday plan, and I prefer it that way (I find birthday plans slightly embarrassing), so this ad hoc celebration was exactly the very thing.
The internet shimmered with sweetness and kindness. Facebook and Twitter hummed with birthday messages. There is something very touching about people one may never meet stopping to remember that this is the day of one’s birth.
And now there is just time for a couple of pictures, of the Best Beloveds -
The running herd:
Red the Mare, at her most demure:
Stanley the Dog, with his serious handsome face on:
And the Dear Departeds:
And my hill: