My birthday weekend was a resounding success.
In spite of the fact that we had to take a late train to Rennes, after a day on which I would rather not have been at work, with a Tadpole who was visibly wilting more every second and had lost what little grasp of logic and reason she normally possesses, but who was hell bent on fighting the urge to sleep. Suffice to say that there were moments where complimentary earplugs would have been welcome. For everyone in the carriage.
In spite of the fact that Tadpole swallowed several cherry tomatoes without first biting or chewing, which resulted in her thoughtfully redecorating my Lover’s apartment (with special attention paid to the sofa) in warm cherry tones the following morning.
In spite of the fact that once I had left Paris, and finally began to let go of the stresses of the past week, I then spent most of the weekend in a comatose, horizontal state, unable to venture out from between my cool, white sheets for any extended period of time, lulled by the mutterings of cricket commentators in the next room (or the slightly less soothing sound of Grand Prix). Not the most dynamic weekend I have spent in recent times.
But my ipod now boasts a lovely, baby blue leather cover which fits ever so snugly. I had to amend one of my 33 things when I opened my other birthday gifts. I am also the proud owner of a very fetching pair of “I’ll never get laid in these” Miffy pyjamas.
The highlight of my weekend was being treated to a divine meal where I feasted on foie gras poêlé and magret de canard à la fleur d’oranger and other such delights.
So, on balance, this birthday girl is not complaining. (For once.)