I Love Birthdays

I have a new printer, hurrah!!! A birthday present – the result of a joint effort between Tudor and my Mother, I got to choose a Canon  Pixma, and I am very happy with it. Have just been installing it and having a play around. Far superior to my old Brother that has just died.

And many thanks to those who have sent me birthday greetings. Anyone who knows me knows that I love birthdays. I am not one to poo, poo people being extra nice to me and even giving me presents! I am a founder member of the Campaign for a Birthday Week. As at the moment there are no other members, but I am positive that there are others out there who agree.

My birthday went well, as it usually does, although I have had two spectacularly awful birthdays whilst travelling in Europe, but we will save those tales for another time.

We scooped up the Mother and took her off printer hunting and then after lunch, when she insisted on staying at home to make Pavlova and have a small sleep in front of the telly,  we sloped off to Petone, where I ate far to much Berry and Chocolate Bread and Butter Pudding and walked Polly Cheese Hound on the beach. We picked up a pile of sea glass, which I will probably do nothing with – I just love sea glass.

Then in the evening my brother and two of his children, 17 and 19, arrived and shared dinner with us.  My brother is a compulsive talker and I am occasionally pleased that I am not actually blood related to him because I might have inherited the talk gene. He is in the Diplomatic Protection Squad and knows a great deal about stuff that I will hopefully never have to know about – like how to shoot someone properly. The day of my birthday he had been practising at the range and so that was on his mind, hence I now know in detail, how to load a Glock with one arm ( the other one having been shot). So useful.

I like being 47. For a start, I am quite surprised I have actually made it this far. So if I die now, I will still be well impressed.  Also at the beginning of the year I realised that I had forgotten how old I was (I always do that in the middle bits) and asked Tudor if he knew. He looked serious for a moment and said 47. Because he looked like he had actually thought about it, and I couldn’t be arsed figuring it out for myself, I believed him. Result? I thought I was a year older than I was for about three months.

I wanted to share a favourite photo with you. I was reading an article regarding a book to be published about women in the American West. There are so many things I love about it – her dress, the flowers and her donkey. Who was  she? What was her life like?

Found this photo used in an article women in the American West