So, I just had a birthday, and I’ll bet you want to know what I got. Well, I’ll tell you:
2) Sinfully delicious cake from both my sis and Mum (because apparently my hips haven’t done enough spreading recently –and worse, I didn’t care)
3) Wine from Mum and Dad (Cheersh!)
4) Beer from me to myself (Cheershes every one, an’ I love every one… in the WORLD!)
5) Lots of great wishes from friends, family and fans (Cheers… but, erhm. I’m twenty-five. Twenty-five from now on, and for life. Got that?)
And, finally (boys looks away now,)
6) My period. You know. Just to remind me that another egg’s gone down the drain and I’ve, like, twenty left, if I’m lucky.
Now, on my birthday, come hell or high water, I get up to absolutely NOTHING. I mean it. I take a shower, get back into bed, and watch movies and/or read a book, sipping wine or beer all day long –in between bites of cake or chocolate. I don’t check my mail, or answer my phone, or even get out to pee until the very last pressing moment. It’s Bliss. A time to think idly, dream wildly, rest completely, pray mildly and fervently in turn… Emerging benevolently foggy-headed and fresh, the next day, to face ‘well-wishers.’ I mean, seriously? Birthdays should be banned after the age of 21, because, after this, it’s all about what you’ve achieved lately which, in my case, is Prospects that make me wish I had the power, quoted in Fairy Tales, to “banish people to distant lands”. For EVER. Cases in point? Please enjoy the following VERBATIM messages received in the last week:
A: “Am also an ardent Arsenal fan , a maasai warrior who would like spoiling you given a chance . get in touch baby !”
B: “hi wzp… how is ur day?”
There was another message (which I can’t quote, for I wouldn’t want to offend you –or myself, all over again) from a guy who had retained only the part of my profile wherein I say that I am looking for a man who is affectionate and likes sex. To paraphrase, this fool sent me a message asking me whether I would care to ‘share my skills’ with him. I think he was expecting me to beg him for his number so that I could be right over, dressed in just my birthday suit and a bottle of cream. I replied extremely rudely to him, but that might have been the cramps talking. In a normal frame of mind, I’d have simply deleted the message and blocked him.
Another of my recent prospects, which I had been considering semi-seriously, wrote me a message headed “My Dear…” which totally put me off. My name is NOT Marjorie, I am NOT (yet) 60, and I certainly haven’t been married to anyone long enough for them to call me “My Dear.” DisGUSting.
SO! I’m twenty-five, with yet another year to face. God bless me in my Pursuit of Happiness! Please send me a man (a real one, made like You meant them to be) and the NEW prospect of a baby? Cheers!