Done - thank gawd - another birthday. No awfulness, no extreme wonderment, no religious conversions, unexpected sexual intercourse or presents of such beauty and value that I am forced to reconsider my long-held beliefs that the human race is essentially fucked. Functional, that¹s what I¹ll call today.
Has anybody ever had a truly extraordinary birthday, received something that was really unexpected something to take the breath away without being crack cocaine or a bullet?
A few years ago my mother gave me a coffin hopefully not wishful thinking. A miniature snuffbox from an antiques stall, which now entombs the biggest wasp I ever slayed. This year it¹s classical CDs. Excellent ones, although none of the composers hail from my favoured present location. I¹m going through a Gloucester composers phase, in exactly the same way I went through a Velvets, Suicide and New York Dolls, NYC phase. As far as I know, Vaughan Williams unlike my other hero Lou Reed, never provided the music for a Kung Fu video.
Anyway, today has been utterly delightful. Cakes, shaving soap wrapped with a whole roll of celltotape; my daughter¹s first ever cinematic experience the Wizard of Oz at the Hampstead Everyman with cake and Coca Cola -which made her brave enough to endure the wicked witch of the west and her flying monkeys - bollocks to first teeth, that¹s why we get two sets.
All followed by more grown up pleasures in the boozers of north London, with the stragglers of the festive exodus. I am presented with a terrible moral quandary however. In the process of receiving gifts from my old drug buddies I seem to have acquired the Christmas gifts of a lady called Maria. We¹re talking a Tesco bag containing a coconut milk massage bar of soap, some floating magnolia floral bath roses, and a book by Victoria Hislop, The Island - which comes highly recommended by Richard and Judy.
The pub from which I retrieved these items was staffed by unpleasant types, so returning them would in all likelihood just lead to a nasty barman smelling of coconuts, while roses floated in his bath. The lady to whom they were directed is called Maria ... er, oh fuck, I've lost the card. I thought this would be a festive blog with a happy ending and Maria could claim her presents. All I can remember is that the card was also signed by a dog named Shep with a paw print.
My intentions were really good, but if I don't find the card what can I do? If you see me in the new year and I smell of coconut massage soap, don't blame me, blame drunken Maria - who hated your paltry gifts so much that she left them in the boozer.
