Graceland and Grandma

I should feel a lot worse today than I actually do. After a week of feeling lethargic and sluggish, I went with B to a birthday bash and had so much wine there’s probably a national shortage of Sauvignon Blanc because of me now. Perhaps I’m feeling perkier than I should because today started out brilliantly – delicious morning sex followed by a full English breakfast, then back up to our room for more delicious morning sex. I lost count of how many big oh’s I had. Ah, the many benefits of having a boyfriend whose sex drive matches your own.

It’s barely gone 10 o’clock and I’m showered and packed, just typing away as B’s having a shower and doing his man marinade thing in the bathroom – his showers are followed by another shower of deodorant, honestly, you can’t go into the bathroom for a good ten minutes after that little ritual. He smells bloody good though, so I’ll forgive him.

Last night was – despite me still feeling quite tired – a hoot. Had a good giggle with B and his friend C, and enjoyed the band even though I only recognised one song and therefore wasn’t in the mood for a boogie. It was more of a jump-up-and-down sort of beat, and that doesn’t do it for me, so my dance floor tornado routine will have to wait until next time. It all ended at midnight so we headed back to the hotel where we stayed in the bar drinking and playing pool with C until 2am, at which point it was B who decided we should call it a night. I think C is probably a bit of a loose cannon, he always seems to be involved when there’s a big (and messy) night, and he was urging B and I to have another, and another, and…. He’s good fun though, I have yet to meet a friend of B’s I don’t like. Birds of a feather I suppose.

The venue was brilliant, a big farm with its own farm shop and petting zoo, and the party was held in a converted barn. Fairy lights everywhere, music blaring and the best hot dogs (all local produce of course) I’ve ever had in my life. The birthday boy got to fully embrace his inner rock star and sang for an impressive three hours (and pulled some serious Jagger moves, some so ambitious and energetic they would have exhausted a man half his age) with his band. Well, I suppose if you have to face turning 50 you may as well do it in style.

B turns 50 in 2016, two months after I turn 40 and we have already decided that we’re going to do a three-week US roadtrip. Because I’m a hillbilly at heart, we’re aiming for the deep south – Nashville, Memphis and so on. That will be absolutely amazing! Morgan Freeman has a blues bar in the Mississippi delta area, so that one’s a must and as tacky a tourist attraction as it probably is, I need to see Graceland. HAVE TO. Jesus, getting to visit the home of the king is worth turning 40 for in itself.

As for a party, that bit is open still. Well, it’s a year and a half away so not exactly like we’re in a rush. Problem is I don’t like being the centre of attention, so that will be trickier to plan than our roadtrip. I mean, I’d rather eat my own vomit than stand up and hold a speech, which you sort of have to if you pull everyone together to celebrate a big birthday with you. My 30th was a fairly quiet affair, just my then husband and a group of friends consisting of mainly mine and some of his – just dinner at a nice pub and some drinks. My 20th took place in Devon, where I was for a half term with the family I worked for as an au-pair that first year in London. Yep, stereotype of the century, me – Swedish au-pair called Anna. And I have the blue eyes, blond hair and big boobs too. Painful, really. My 10th was with friends and my mum had made one of her legendary cakes.

10, 20 and 30 aren’t THAT important though, are they? It’s 40 and beyond that you really need to acknowledge living. Or is it the middle ones? 40, 50 and 60? Just like 20 and 30 don’t seem major, nor do 70 or 80. Or have I missed something? Oh, I know! My 80th birthday bash is the one when I’m going to request a band and I will shake my replacement hips like mad all night, belting out my favourite songs! B will be 90, and he can do a duet with me as long as it isn’t ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams. That’d be uncool.

Yep, that’s what I’ll do. Rock’n’roll grandma!


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