It’s not my birthday but this is about my birthday. It was written a long while back when I was writing only for myself to flush out a feeling, rather than writing to inspire or about a specific point. I never intended to use it. But I’m stuck in a spell of not feeling my best.  Depression is standing over me, flushing my head down the toilet pan, and I have not much writing capacity. So I leaned back and plucked this grumpy blog out of bag 101…  

“I’m tired of people telling me I don’t like birthdays. It’s not true. I enjoy other people enjoying their birthdays, very much. I enjoy finding ways to surprise my children on their birthdays. I don’t enjoy feeling pressure to make my birthday into something that helps other people tick a box. I enjoy no fuss. I enjoy eating poached eggs in a cafe. I enjoy a walk along a beach. I’d enjoy someone telling me they’d chucked a fiver into the donation box of my favourite venue struggling to survive the pandemic. I’d enjoy somebody helping me get out to go on the walk. I’d enjoy somebody noticing that the laundry needed hung out. I’d enjoy somebody knowing what I’d enjoy.

It’s my birthday. I treated myself to two cross tears. And now I’m sitting in the sunny bit looking through a gardening catalogue with a cup of hot, black coffee. And I’m enjoying that.”

My apologies for no cheery blog. It’s one of those tough times and this is what I had. 

I still send it to you with love.

The room above the garage

A Moodscope member.