Happy Birthdays

          It was my birthday on Wednesday but, having seen that the forecast for Tuesday was better – blue sky from dawn to dusk – I brought it forward a day. Who relishes their birthday on a wet Wednesday in February? Especially when you consider that, at some point in life, birthdays cease to be occasions for celebrating progress towards coming-of-age and become, instead, markers in a countdown to the end; and, since I’m in the late stage of the latter, it’s best I put a positive spin on mine.

          On Monday, things were not looking too good. I had been kept awake most of the previous night by a stingingly sore throat, the prelude to a common cold that my Other Half had succeeded at last in passing on to me. Feeling wrung-out, I went to bed in the afternoon with a box of tissues and a hope that the worst would soon be over, as the plan for the next day involved a lengthy coastal walk and I wanted to feel up to it. As it turned out, I did awake refreshed and we (my OH and I) set off as planned, provisioned with sandwiches, tissues and de-congestant tablets. The thing about coastal walks is their linearity so, if you don’t want to retrace your steps, logistical planning is required. For our walk, there is a bus route that is not only convenient but also scintillating, especially viewed from the seats at the front of the top deck. Two children could not have been more excited than we were to bag the best seats on the bus and to arrive at our destination, the Clifftop Café, in perfect time for coffee. Sometimes, it’s just small triumphs that make a day special.

           The walk itself, a not especially arduous eight miles, has points of interest – such as a community of ad-hoc chalets nestling in niches along the sloping cliffs, a herd of wild horses that has the right to roam and the absence of urban settlements from the view – that makes it feel more remote than it is. We made easy, enjoyable progress and concluded that hiking in fine weather may not be a cure for a streaming nose but is a welcome distraction from its disagreeable manifestations.

          We arrived home to find another small pile of greetings cards behind the door. Not all my friends are sure of my date of birth: several seemingly conflate me with St. Valentine and others write confidently on their envelopes, “To be opened on the… [wrong date inserted]”. I’ve had calls and messages before, on and after the actual day, and I really don’t mind. It kind of prolongs the love and makes me feel as though I’m getting more than my share. When I think about it cynically, the tradition of celebrating people’s dates of birth is a nice earner for the industry of cards and gifts, but the more general upside is that we all get to be prompted or reminded that we have friends and relatives with whom we intend to stay close yet don’t always match our intensions with deeds. Besides, some of the cards are works of art, so fine that I don’t want to discard them. Others are apposite or funny in ways that only closeness allows. Then there are e-cards, resource-efficient and with the advantage of not taking up space in your drawers when they’ve passed their “display-by” date.

          I wouldn’t change a thing. Except for the emphasis on that one day. I lived in Africa for a while and I recall my native friends wishing me well on my birthday with the salutation “Happy New Year!”, which is so much more generous than “Have a good day!” So, in the interest of prolonging the celebration, we’re booked for dinner at our favourite restaurant several days after it’s supposedly all over.