I was not planning on acknowledging my birthday this year. I used to be all about the big cocktail party with a proper bar and lots of frock action at my place etc etc before I moved to America. In 2007 I was to be found dancing in the Beatrice Inn with my girlfriends in New York: the first time I had been out on my birthday in years, rather than throwing a party. But since then I’ve been all about the low key evening with a few friends, and this year I just wasn’t feeling like doing anything at all.
It’s been an extraordinary year professionally, but personally it’s been a bit meh, and the idea of celebrating being a year older wasn’t filling me with joy. I flatly refused to celebrate.
But I had not bargained on my glorious friends, on Clare & Ayla & Tara, who individually began a relentless campaign via Twitter, phone & email to get me to agree to do something this evening.
There comes a point where resistance becomes a) futile & b) churlish.
So, courtesy of Clare’s inspiration, the sheer willpower of my girlfriends & an empty motorway that got me back to London in time, seven of us ended up in the excellent Vietnamese near my apartment. (Which is good, as I get takeout from there thrice weekly, and now they know that I actually have a life beyond ordering foil containers of pho.) We ordered most of the menu, drank sake and ate that Paul f**k off meringue/ganache/hazelnut/chocolate concoction masquerading as cake that Ayla & Tara plotted to bring. And Anne bought me cake, and Clare bought a Victoria sponge too.
I sense a theme here.
I was most impressed that Tara’s card was an homage to P Bad, even though she is most definitely not a fan.
Thank you girls for coming out on a Sunday night, and for buying me dachshund birthday cards even though you don’t, erm, love my dog. I love you all. LOVE.