Grim Resignation

Today, I am 35. I am half-way through my three-score-years-and-10 officially alloted (hah!) lifespan.

Naturally, I am handling it gracefully.

I am chewing on the furniture in wild-eyed desperation, casting myself into gloom with painfully cliched self-interrogation. What have I done? What have I achieved? How much time have I gone and bloody wasted?  Etc, et-horribly tedious-c.

John, correctly deeming us to be stony broke, has retrenched in his spending this year. My memories of previous birthdays are foggy – encroaching age, I expect – but I don’t think his 2010 stance actually entails a particularly large shift from his 2003, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 approach. Farmers, even flush ones, are notoriously reluctant to spend money in the high street, but I’m not bitter which fact I knew when I married him. 

Harry bought me a card – I insisted, and took them both shopping a-purpose yesterday – but John has written me one of mine, and I can’t actually see that he’s paid me for it, either. As he is my business’s de facto financial backer, they are all, technically, his cards anyway. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.

I am, it has to be admitted, vaguely miffed about the absence of present from Harry. John claimed defensively that I didn’t like the ‘Mummy’ mug Harry bought me for Christmas, and that I was scathing about it. Perhaps I was, a little. I opened the wrapping to find the exact same mug he had bought me the Christmas before, and I hadn’t liked it much then, either.

I feel I should choose Harry’s personal shopper a little better in future.

But, before you all sharpen your commiserating commenting pencils and drop me into the domestic doo-dah, I AM shortly being taken out to dinner. Ho, yes! Just as soon as Harry stops his daily post-nap apocalyptic meltdown, we are off! I am putting my foot down!

We are taking Harry to tea at Frankie and Benny’s on the A46 Evesham bypass.

What? What? The kid likes trucks! And pizza!

And it’s not all doom and gloom, despite my best efforts. My mother took Harry & I out for a cheese & crisp sandwich lunch at the garden centre – I’m really not making this up –  and it was actually very nice.

Mum and Dad weighed in with a delightful Emma Bridgewater teapot and mug which I have been hankering after; my friend J, who is really a very sweet girl indeed, bought me some pretty jewellery, and the dark-haired loveliness that is May (and the fair-haired different-type-of-loveliness that is H) sent me beautiful flowers. I’m not sure if the message she put in the card or the message she put with the flowers made me teariest; the day promptly sailed much above the average.

So. That was today.

Tomorrow I shall hopefully tell you all about how my illustrious innards sent yet another medical professional screaming into the night.

It will not be for the – cough!areyouhearingmeDad?cough – squeamish.

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