Lucky number...

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So another birthday creeps past in a flurry of birthday cards, flowers and gifts...

What is it about birthday cards that it becomes more acceptable to insult the card receiver as they get older.  This year, I had one card with a row of naked bottoms on it, and one with a reference to preferring the taste of a sausage outside (camping reference in case you're worrying).  I've put these ones at the back of the shelf, leaving the ones with kittens, schnauzers and flowers vying for attention at the front.  I mean, you can't be too careful can you?  I wouldn't want to have to explain the one about the sausage to the vicar (explaining it to The Mother was bad enough).

There were lots of lovely presents this year including flowers, perfume, and stuff for the garden, but the husband surpassed himself this year with his present for me.

I am incredibly impressed that he managed to keep it a secret as I have a vague recollection of him hopping from foot to foot back in July, telling me 'that's your birthday present sorted'.  He did admit on Saturday that he'd come close to divulging what he'd bought me, but the thought of trying to think of an alternative present for the actual day was more than he could bear.  So what did he get me?  Well, it was a set of number plates for my car. His initials, then a 4, and then my initials.

This probably sounds a bit daft, but when you have known each other since you were 16, you remember scrawling 'Tracy 4 Neil', on your rough book while Mr Rouse was extolling the virtues of infinite elasticity, so the registration number is a flashback to a time when there was more hair, less wrinkles, Top of the Pops and Noel Edmunds swapping stuff on a Saturday.

These days, the hair is in the wrong place (mainly my chin), the wrinkles are multiplying faster than a couple of teenage rabbits on a Saturday night, Top of the Pops is a distant memory and Noel Edmunds is a cat whisperer.

But the husband's love for me has never changed, and I suppose the number plate shows me that he doesn't care who knows it.

Calls himself a tough old Northerner, but I know better...



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