On top of spaghetti...

And so onto my actual birthday.

We had breakfast with California Kate and Biggles who hadn't slept a wink overnight.  They blamed it on the jetlag, but I am sure that the husband's snoring (he made the Guinness Book of World Records in 2019 having closely beaten a misfiring Boeing 747) was more to blame.  They left soon afterwards, desperate for a night flight and a bit of sleep, and it was then off to see Miss R and the parents for tea and stickies.  

While this sounds like a move that Morris Dancers might do, it's a family reference to cake, and I left the café slightly wider and carrying a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the wonderful Miss R, together with a large helium balloon which proclaimed how ancient I was that day. She likes to rub it in that I'm older than her, I reckon.  Now it was very windy last Tuesday, and as the husband and I trolleyed up the High Street back to the car, it was touch and go whether the balloon would get there.  But I hung onto it, and the husband hung onto me, and we finally made it back. For once, I was rather grateful that he wasn't going through one of his 'slim' phases.  The ballast was very useful.

On Tuesday night, we were with Italian Mrs H who made us a beautiful meal.  I have to say that the husband was lucky to make it out of her dining room alive as she served pasta which was a metre long. Looking furtively around the table, the husband suddenly uttered the words which every Italian fears.  'Could I have a knife please?'

I think that Mrs H only allowed him to cut his spaghetti up as it was my birthday.  Any other day, and he would have been impaled against the kitchen door with the sharpest knife she could find while she screamed (in Italian probably) 'You don't cut spaghetti, you Philistine! Twirl it with your fork like a proper Italian does'.

Wednesday and Thursday passed peaceably enough with birthday cards arriving.  At this point, can I just remind my friends and family that living where we do has its problems.  One of which is that the postie only deigns to deliver post three days a week. I'm not too sure what he does with the other three days, perhaps lying in the floor laughing his head off at the fact that on Tuesday I assumed no one had remembered my birthday and sulked for at least an hour and a half.

Friday saw the arrival of lots of family. My sister in law Mrs W and her handsome beau, Mr W together with the husband's niece and her chap.  As we had a house full of kids, I managed to negotiate a cracking deal with one of my neighbours who has two posh sheds in her garden which worked really well. They were so lovely, that my friend had to serve an eviction notice on Tuesday as the four of them barricaded the doors and George the Fish Man (a regular customer) couldn't get in.

And then it was Saturday...party night...