Lost Weekend.

I fell off the side of the earth again didn’t I? Its been a scrumptiously silly week: hen weekends, Mothers Day, my Birthday and a date to die for. In fact I haven’t polished my doorknobs for days.

Shamefully the weekend was spent dressed as a schoolgirl in Skegness. At a "Skool Reunion" disco in Butlins (Oh yes, God help me!) with three thousand other schoolgirls and overgrown schoolboys, men dressed as netball players, a gaggle of blue Smurfs, and the occasional headmaster complete with cane…

It was surreal in a Hi-De-Hi kind of way. Complete  with slightly scummy chalets and too much fun to be had, hot dogs ate in a merry fashion at two o’clock in the morning, pinched bottoms and  gangs of over excited Stag parties. You get the  picture…

It so wasn’t my thing, but clearly I have no idea what my thing is at all because it was great.

I finally recovered from the whole matter yesterday morning. I woke up in Mum’s spare room, with my  little angel comatose next to me.  A little angel who upon opening his eyes,  presented me  with an  "I love you Mummy" feather. Dragged I suspect from  inside Mums goose feather  quilt, but the bestest present I’ve ever had all the same…

The day was spent in a haze of presents and people. Kath baked the most scrumptious  chocolate cake  for me with cream stuffed with strawberries and raspberries. A cake that was lit at the school gates while my very own little harem of yummy mummies surrounded me and sang Happy Birthday in the street! I was blushing and delighted and thrilled and thirty five years old with wrinkles around my eyes. Then came more presents, more people. Nobody mentioned my middle aged spread or fresh batch of grey hair and all was well and oh so very scrumptious in birthday land…

But you know what? Some days just get better and better. Some birthdays say, this, my Darling Girl is gonna go be a good year…

Some birthdays provide absolute proof that angels kiss you with the tiniest stroke of a little white feather. Some birthdays you find yourself sitting in a pub with a man who makes your tummy tingle, the lucky recipient of a monkey and a bag of Baby Bel cheese…

Some birthdays it seems,  are sent to say, its a whole new year,  get up and start again. Believe.  Wash fear down the plughole (Can I let myself be vulnerable again? Shoulda, woulda coulda…? )  and trust in angels, and chocolate cake and men who may, just may, be who they say they are…

Or else don some fishnet stockings and a straw boater, go live in Skegness, and crack that whip Lady…

Just don’t let me lose my head altogether. Ok?