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Tonight my family gathered to celebrate my 50th birthday. We were all here, of course, for the more important 80th birthday of my mum tomorrow and I am still very firmly 49 years old for another 10 days, so it was crazy to be celebrating now. It also means though that it is nearly 50 years since my mum last had a baby - which is worth celebrating in itself and (I presume) 50 years and 9 months since my mum last had sex. This went largely unspoken, but I feel we were celebrating that as much as the half century that has passed since I crawled my way out and began life on the outside.
I had been wiped out all day, after not sleeping well and I managed a debilitating nap in the afternoon. Then I took my family up the gorge for a walk, but we ended up meeting my nephew and his fiance and my niece and Catie’s brother (who I hope might also one day be married) in the King’s Head pub garden. This was the first pub that had allowed me and my very much underage mates to drink inside (I think when we were about 14) as long as we didn’t make too much noise and hid away in the snug. The 1980s were a happier and simpler time when blind eyes were turned and IDs were unheard of. I favoured Cinzano and lemonade at that time, as most of the proper drinks tasted bitter, but moved on to Southern Comfort and lemonade and finally pints of bitter, which back then, cost under a pound a pint. This was also the pub that had a faulty Durex machine, which, if you knew how to turn the handle right, would give out free packs of condoms and occasionally pound coins (which you could buy a pint with). Those condoms would go unused, of course, as my virginity would outlast their sell-by date, though occasionally one was employed in a disappointing “posh wank”. I mean condoms pretty much ruin sex, so why I thought they would improve masturbation I have no idea. Oh wait, I do. It’s because I hadn’t had sex.
I kept most of my youthful exploits from my family though and just marvelled at the fact that the kids I had know their whole lives were now grown-up. My nephew bought me a pint. I reckon he can probably still beat me at tennis too.
Phoebe and me had fun looking at a wood louse and stroking the pub cat and dog and then jumping up and down on some decking. Childhood pleasures are simple, but they are also rather excellent. I had as much fun as her.
I met my great-nephew for the first time. He’s nine months old, but I suspect in the blink of an eyelid he will be buying me a pint in some pub of the future. I remember his dad being 2 hours old! Now he’s a lunking great 33 year-old. And a dad. Because he’s lived his life properly, unlike his wayward uncle.
Phoebe got on very well with her little first cousin once removed (who bizarrely should address her as aunty Phoebe - and even more bizarrely is also the “nephew" of our unborn child) and loved hanging around with “the baby”, which is a positive sign for what is to come.
The birthday dinner was a lot of fun. But the first indication that I may not be as calm about turning 50 as I profess, was the fact that I was subconsciously turning around all the little bits of confetti that littered the table, and proclaimed 50, so that they now pretty much almost said 20. Because I am 20. This was my 20th birthday. Oh God, I am about to have a breakdown. I thought I’d got through it.
My other niece had had an amazing cake made with my picture on it and me and Phoebe blew out the candles (thankfully there were not 50 of them).
I am still in denial.
