Happy birthday to me

Yesterday, in honour of it being my last day at the age I've been for the past year, I took advantage of not getting Rob's first slot of the day for the haircut I've been trying to fit in since November and got myself into my favourite French cafe for the first time since I think 2003.

Twenty years ago when I lived near it and went every Saturday, I would very occasionally take a vacation from my office job to stay home and write fiction.  And at some point during the day I would go over to drink cafe au lait in a bowl and listen to grownup arty professional types having their business meetings there under cover of the always-fabulous jazz music.  Every time, I promised myself that some day I'd be in some arty line of work that would allow me to go there in the middle of the day, just like them.

So yesterday it was pretty great to sit at a marble table with my cafe au lait in a bowl, and the draft copy to review of another knitting pattern I wrote that's due to be published in a few months' time, and a pineapple danish at my side, which was just way too sticky to eat while holding a pen over paper but I ate it anyway because there is Nothing. Better. than a custard danish with a slice of pineapple on it.  See?

And this time when I listened to the grownup arty professional types - who still seemed to be the same amount older than me without actually being the same people, which struck me as more than a little time-warpy - I thought: I am really happy with my life just the way it is.

That's a pretty nice feeling to have, especially the day before your birthday, don't you think?

Tough to top on the actual day.

Unless of course you can't decide on a birthday cake

and opt to have them all.