Someone else in our house finally turned twenty-seven yesterday. He’s a good one.
I truly, truly love other people’s birthdays. I’m not much of a party planner – introduce other people into the mix and suddenly things become very stressful, says the introvert (oh do come into my cave, how lovely to see you) . But wrapping presents, choosing cards, making cake and planning surprises get me so excited I look forward to it for months. I spent Monday evening bellowing ‘I’M SO EXCITED ABOUT YOUR BIRTHDAY’ into Timothy’s ear at random intervals. He’d have been excited too, if he hadn’t gone deaf.
Henry and I decided on a photo birthday card for his contribution to the festivities. Posing for photographs is not one of his specialities these days. Let’s just say that two of the spaces had to be filled in with obliging soft toys – which did not jump up and down, grab the camera or attempt to pick my nose mid-shot – and leave it at that.
Question: does it mean you are old if the very best celebration you can think of is more sleep, much food and piles of cake? We got up and opened presents, ate breakfast, watched a couple of movies while I baked his birthday Swedish tea-ring, then went out for steak. In the evening, we dropped Henry off with his auntie and uncle, ran down to London and watched The 39 Steps at the Criterion Theatre. We ate McDonalds chips looking at the lights on Regent Street, because if we are anything, we are classy. It was perfect, and it wasn’t even my birthday.
Happy birthday, Mr Jeffcoat! We think you’re pretty rad.
(I’ll do a Cakery Bakery post, with recipe, for the Swedish tea-ring later this week. I believe in obesity for all.)