Monkey Birthday

This is Monkey. Today, Monkey is 58 years old, which, coincidentally, is the same age as me! Monkey was a gift from my aunts Pollie and Necé to me, given on the day I was born. I didn’t know this until a few years ago when my Mum surrendered Monkey into my possession. Until that point, I just thought it was a weird little soft toy that lived on her dressing table. But turns out it was mine all along! The Monkey, not the dressing table.

My brother WhatsApped me this morning to remind me I was 58 years old. He said, ‘That’s two years away from 60.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say, yes, I did get my O level maths, you know, but I didn’t because sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, so instead I said, ‘What, like you’ll be 60 in three years and three weeks’ time?’ because he is exactly a year and three weeks younger than me. I comfort myself that I look younger than him because I have been moisturising since I was 14 and I am pretty certain he hasn’t.

Monkey and I received some lovely birthday gifts and cards. We went out for lunch at a pub near to where Andy will be working at his new job in January. Did I tell you Andy has a new job? Anyway, we met Heather and Ollie (Heather made me a quite FABULOUS birthday cake - chocolate, raspberries and cream - and I blew out the candle and made a wish because I believe in the magick of this kind of thing) and we enjoyed a good chatty lunch.

And now I am home and reading one the books I received. And I am thinking, now I am 58, there’s not much I want in life. It’s the simple things that mean the most. It is the sense of peace and calm, of good company and lovely food, of thoughtful gifts (like the hand crocheted blanket from my dear friend, Jane, made with love, that will be treasured), of knowing that all will be well if you let it be well. Even the constant rain and gusty winds of today mean that it feels all the more cosy and snug indoors.

Here we go, then, Monkey and I, into our 59th year. I feel quietly optimistic that it will be a good one.