Yeah, yesterday I turned, aaargh, 55. I spent most of it not only alone but pretty much in solitary confinement as Solly absented himself apart from a generic happy birthday text. I was too upset by this to want to talk to anyone else and spent the day wandering the streets feeling utterly alienated. But heck, what are birthdays anyway? Ideally they might be a chance for others to show you you matter to them and they were glad you were born.
No one gives a fuck about me. Correction, I got a card from my mum on Monday enclosing some post-it notes. And one from my very conscientious and kind cousin who I haven’t set eyes on for years and years.
Well I was lying on my bed around 9pm having largely got over the hurt and the crappy mobile phone he insisted on buying me rang. He arrived presently with a good friend of his who has been round before (he trusts him you see), bearing a bunch of orange roses and a box of Ferrero Rocher (which I don’t like lol).
So with Douglas the lodger and music on YouTube we did in the end have ourselves a little party. You really don’t need many bodies to make a party if the vibe is right. Three is the minimum I guess. And he showered me with affection (by his standards). He couldn’t keep up the act for very long though. When he launched into yet another drunken rant about my ‘snitching’ in front of his pal I just excused myself and went to bed.
He’s asleep on the sofa as I type this. None of it is right, but it’s OK, as one of Whitney’s least inspiring numbers goes. At least I’m not on crack, horribly famous or dangerously underweight right?
Is it in the bible, the saying about ‘he who loves his life will lose it and conversely he who hates it will be given more’? (I loosely paraphrase).
Well if so I can testify to the absolute truth of that statement. And some of us are just (unfortunately) built to last.