47 years ago I attended Favourite Aunt’s 60th birthday party. I’m fairly certain I’ve blogged about it somewhere…
But, anyway. I knew for a fact that she was dreadfully old that day. 60! She retired at 60. I knew for a fact that she’d be very hard up from then on and I’d have to be mature about not getting any more generous presents. (Not that it’s relevant here, but FA was better off as a retired person than Mother-of-Witch ever was working, so the presents kept coming. And once I got used to her absolute ancient status, she didn’t seem so old either.)
What’s more, her guests were old, apart from me and the daughter of FA’s boss, whose orange peel I helped her dispose of, being tremendously mature at 13, compared to her eleven. Early January, so the oldies wore suitable overshoes or boots in the snow, necessitating their removal on the mezzanine floor below FA’s flat, enabling guests to make an entrance in full party shoe splendour.
So, well, that premature ode you caught a glimpse of a few weeks ago? Today is the day. And I realise that to anyone young unfortunate enough to meet me, I am also incredibly ancient, ready for the knacker’s yard. Was FA also feeling 33 on the inside? I’ll never know, but she had another 33 years after that morning of snowboots and orange peel.
My guests are certainly not old at all. And I’ll enjoy my old mean witch status. No presents for anyone!