Unlike the Hot Chocolate song which started with a kiss, after prompting from my buddy Sarah, GJ Strachan’s final birthday in his 50’s started with Alexa singing him a hearty rendition of ‘Happy Birthday To You’.
The virtual songbird making a far better fist of the famed refrain than yours truly who decided to go with the absurd lyrics of “Happy Birthday to me; I’m not 53; I’m not 54 either; or indeed 55!” to the same accompanying tune. My lyrical jamming aimed at upping creativity levels of the staid old traditional version.
However, the consensus of opinion among Sarah and the dogs (judging from their looks of bemusement as my idiosyncratic version played out) seemed that Alexa’s offering was a far superior adaptation.
The Yorkshire lass was particularly unimpressed by my bromidic attempts at augmenting the anthem’s levity levels. My self-indulgent inanity causing Ossett’s finest to level accusations I was a “Silly old b*****d!”….. An uncharitable epithet to dub someone on their birthday perhaps; although in her defence the label wasn’t without merit.
This, the first birthday since my mother passed, was predominantly a low key affair. Being bereft of the woman who bore me 59 years ago on Monday taking the shine off an event I normally celebrate with gusto….. And if Gusto’s busy, I celebrate with Verve and/or Vigour…… Yes, I know that gag doesn’t scan properly due to capitalisation inconsistencies, but it’s my birthday and I’ll be grammatical inaccurate if I want to.
Of course, despite yesterday being my inaugural birth anniversary minus mater I didn’t spend time moping about. Yours truly envisaging if I’d embarked upon such pitiful behaviour she’d look down from the M&S Food Hall in the sky and given me a right rollocking.
With Sarah working a twelve hour shift and the remainder of my family and friends being scattered around Blighty, apart from my daughter Rachel (who with her partner Brian joined me for a birthday curry in the evening), the day panned out quietly.
Despite being on my tod for much of Monday, it was an agreeable enough celebratory day. In the morning I treated myself to a full English breakfast which, bearing in mind was only from a supermarket cafe, was splendid fare. I decided to eat the meal out, as opposed to cooking it at home, to avoid the dogs emotionally blackmailing me out of my bacon and sausages.
Upon the waitress delivering the breakfast, on account it contained two of every grilled ingredient, I dubbed the hefty petit déjeuner smorgasbord as ‘Noah’s Ark Breakfast’. She smiled upon hearing my piece of lukewarm whimsy, before returning kitchen bound, possibly chuntering under her breath “Noah’s ark breakfast!… What the hell’s he on about!”
On return home yours truly took the dogs for a walk; during which they provided me with a trinity of gifts in the shape of three poops. My son informs me this trio of brown nuggets upping his present quality status from worst to second worst birthday trinket I’ll be bequeathed this year.
As alluded to above, my daughter Rachel and Brian joined me at 7pm for an agreeable enough takeaway curry and celebration of her dad’s birth anniversary. Sarah joining us later upon completion of her work shift.
While we dined, I caught up with what’d been playing out in Rach and Brian’s lives. The pair of them recently changing, or in the process of changing, jobs along with attendance at a wedding in the young fella’s native south east of England.
It was an evening of much laughter, decent tuck and solving the conundrum why Sarah’s upped her hours from 44 to 67 a week since she started seeing me. Rachel solving the enigma by pointing out the rise in the Ossett lass’s work hours was most probably a consequence of wanting to escape my habitual over the top silliness.
Anyhow, thanks to Sarah, Rachel, Brian and the many people who took an opportunity on social media to send their good wishes I’d a splendid day…… I’m now on countdown to the big 6 0…… Tick, tock, tick, tock…..