I really don’t do birthdays. I never have, Why? Who knows. As an only child who lived a solitary life,I became very self sufficient. Although I do remember in those far-off August days the weather was always hot. On one memorable occasion I got so excited at having a birthday party I made myself sick with the pent up fever of excitement. So much so, I was posted off to bed while the party went ahead without me. I can hear now from my darkened room the whoops of delight at my bestest chums scoffing all MY jelly and blancmange, sandwiches and cake.
As a consequence of this Freudian, probably totally wide of the mark assessment of my disinterest of the date in the year that marked my entry into the world, I get very few cards, in the main because I send so few. Although having said all that when I glance across at the windows of houses as I wait for the traffic lights to change, seeing the rows of cards I often wonder if this is what comes to folk who remember everyones birthday. Bit like a round robin type of thing. What goes round comes round. And the worm of wonder does start to think and turn… maybe? The lights change and I roar off, never giving it another thought until the next red traffic light beside a home where a popular person lives!
It is my birthday today and for some strange reason I have quite a few cards… not that I deserve them, mind.Thank you Monica for remembering.
