I feel like I’ve known her forever. I’m sure in a previous life we were mermaids, or French songstresses, or warrior princesses. One of the three. For sure. This is supposing I actually believed in reincarnation or such things, of course.
In this life I’ve known her a long time. Nearly 20 years. Our stories have interlaced around each other several times. In this life we are both writers. And bloggers. And dreamers. And friends.
As friends go, you couldn’t hope for better. She’s seen the very worst of me. And still she reminds me of my very best. She’s loyal and generous to the core.
A few weeks ago my friend asked if she could host a little celebration for my birthday. She undersood my birthday curse. She understood how nervous I was about parties being held for me. She understood my fears. So I found myself agreeing to it. On one condition, “Let’s call it a get-together, not a birthday party…”. And, being the patient friend that she is, she agreed to my neurotic semantics.
And so was born a little high tea in her courtyard. The warmest host in the world took care of everything.
Hand-drawn invitations were sent. Aren’t they stunning? (A handful of mostly mutual friends from our writing world were invited).
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Beautiful bunting was draped.
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Divine crockery was laid out.
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Scrumptious food was prepared.
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The tiniest details were paid attention to.
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And what did I do? I did NOTHING. I simply turned up. Heavenly!
Picture this: Blissful summery afternoon sun. Sipping tea from fine china. Devouring delicate cakes. Guzzling down home-made lemonade. Fabulous conversations with lovely people.
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It was perfect.
And just like that, my birthday curse was broken.
Do you know what feels good?
To feel celebrated. To feel loved. To feel like someone gives a damn about your birthday.
