The thing is…

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.