I have a little sleep-in today. Glycogen outlays at TWO bike races over the weekend have made my short legs weary. Plus, it’s my birthday. Lano, well trained after nearly five years into it, pours me a wake-up champagne. I remain adamant, in the face of extensive questioning, that I DO NOT want, under any circumstances, to go restaurant-ing today to celebrate. I point out, with exaggerated flinging of bedcovers and WHY ME LORD hand gestures, that the organising of birthday dinners always leads to massive over-consumerism, a small lot of besties becoming a giant hoarde, all of whom then feel obliged to buy presents and I, NO SIR!, am not the slightest bit interested in this plastic calendar chicanery. Besides, as I wag my index finger like the wicked witch of the west, remember that the host shouts the grog! REMEMBER? Lano does remember, and runs off, out of my way, to have a shower.
People ring me up (only the people that I want to hear from, now that I have quit Facebook, which is fabulously satisfying) anyway, to ask where the party is. NOT THIS YEAR I say, and once the shock wears off, they wish me well and hope I have a nice day in the sun, booze emoticon, booze emoticon, heart, heart, RUV YOO emoticon, yadda yadda yadda.
After half a glass of Krug, however, I am feeling pretty fine, and demand to a Craig now fully dressed and trying to escape into the garage that I would VERY MUCH like to be taken for lunch THANK YOU and to GET HIS A– back here at 11.45am to pick me up. There are no objections from the defence counsel so I bound around the house feeling ultra super birthday-ish and play all my favourite birthday songs on every speaker we own. It’s heavy on the Abba and the Neil. After three coffees I do all Loretta’s parts to After The Fire Is Gone. Conway Twitty LIVES ON in my kitchen and it’s just me and him up there at the Opry and, and, and….and I even get a good twang going on some Ms Ronstadt. Phew!
Time to get some work done. I hoof it into town, gobble a glass of Bollinger and some delightful asparagus thing at Mister D as per my demands from earlier, scoff two more coffees then make a run for the ‘Stings to a meeting. I have my black widow sharebroking outfit on and I think it has the desired effect. A nice man beside me sweats a lot and looks nervous when I speak, and I feel a bit reticent and make a conscious attempt not to be so intimidating. But I cannot deny my meeting style, it is what has gotten me THIS BLOODY FAR in the first place, and so I let loose, giving it straight, hammering reality home, in my Caroline Elizabeth Ritchie way.
I am 38. I am on fire. I feel young and fit and fantastic. I am ONLY 38. My God, it dawns on me, the best really is yet to come. OH YES.
Auntie Carrie 