It´s my birthday. I don´t mind getting older at all, far from it, and everyone has been perfectly sweet and celebratory and I have received presents.
I´m just pretty hopping mad because I can´t eat cake. I´m ill. How much does that suck? After all tuesday sipping a vile drink made of glucose and salts, I graduated to white rice and apple compote yesterday. Today, as a great concession, I´m told I may have a boiled egg.
Well, my plans for today involved eggs, certainly, numbering six, in the batter of a cake, and another six to be turned into wattle-seed custard.
Also, my father was to have given me one bottle from his precious stash of 1948 Marqués de Riscal Rioja. The best harvest of the century, he says, smugly (he was born that year). We´d been discussing for weeks what to pair the wine with, and now look at us, both ill, both sipping chicken broth.
And you know the worst? If I think of the custard I feel something between indifference and nausea. Is this how thin people feel? Intriguing thought.
So anyway, I´m holding off all celebrations til the weekend, or next week, even.
But what the hell, I think I´ll be wild and crazy and steam some courgettes for dinner, one doesn´t turn 31 every day, after all.