|Who needs a luxury cruise for their birthday?|
(Warning: a middle aged navel will be gazed at.)
Another one, lovely as it goes, in the sunshine of my sister's garden.
But really, it is not, cannot possibly be, twelve months since the last one.
They hurtle in now, one behind the other, as life hurries faster and faster.
Inside, it could be 21, 32 or 36 - I particularly liked 36. Year after year, it's just the same - no apparent change, only an increasing breeze created by life accelerating along.
Outside it's a different story. There are days when every single one of those 45 years makes itself apparent around the eyes... and probably elsewhere.
Birthdays, sneaky red letter days, leap out of the undergrowth at me every May 27. They prompt variously reflection, panic, dismay, cake eating, gin drinking.
But what are they really trying to tell me?
Is it hurrah I've survived to another one? Or perhaps, look out. Tick, tick. Get a move on.
Perhaps a bit of both.
So this year it will be different. I can already hear 46, a long way off, revving up. I no longer have time for farting about and faffing and not being bothered. And for putting up with the irrelevant, irritating and tedious.
Please remind me of this the next time you catch me travelling in circles around a heap of trivia.
PS The correct response to this post is: "I had no idea you were so old, you don't look anything like it."