Heavenly Beverley : Ban The Birthday! (Or Not...)

Birthdays as events are like families as institutions. There is absolutely no choice about the date of your Grand Entrance or the people who claim to be blood-related to you. Hence, both birthdays and families are problematic; liking either of them is dependent on personal circumstances or context. Plus, there is an individual personality to add to the equation.

Michael turned sixty-five last Friday. That he achieved such a significant birthday was, in his eyes, both astounding and unexpected. He cheerfully admits he never dreamt of reaching official retirement age, given his penchant for speed and smoking, beer and bonking and risk-taking with relish. Now that he has actually reached an age when he can choose being a Pilloch of Society or a Grumpy Old Git, he is pondering this state of affairs with a view to surprisingly, living a great deal longer.

In my sixtieth year, my biggest irritant is "having a fall". As Jodie startlingly pointed out the other day, I have succumbed to describing an unplanned and usually painful tumble as "having a fall" rather than just explaining that I fell over. Since this fact has been pointed out, I shall now endeavour to vigorously deny any hint of "having a fall", as well as wholeheartedly ceasing to engage in this pointless exercise.

Having said that, I actually think that emotionally and intellectually, ageing is an adventure. Earlier birthdays, particularly those milestones that hold such expectations, were on the whole, not entirely satisfying and often involved much gnashing of teeth. My twenties revolved around waiting for the appropriate moment to start a family, a need or want that I desperately craved. My thirties disappeared into the that particularly awful, wonderful, grinding and topsy-turvy maelstrom that is parenthood. Forty saw me exhausted and trapped in a disintegrating marriage. Only in the recent past have I felt more confident, more adventurous, more stimulated and seriously happier. And had lots more fun. The catalyst for this change was meeting Michael. Who hit the jackpot when he organised a surprise fiftieth birthday for me.

I think fun can be the antidote to middle-aged monotony. So many of us regard fun as an instrument of the young. We become safe and secure and boringly pompous in our ways. Bugger that. Fun is vital to our well-being. Fun can't be generated as a planned occasion. Fun usually pops up when we're not looking.

Slipping over on a muddy slope. Turning the hose at each other on a hot summer's day. Watching Stella and her squeeze Zeus romp around the park as two goofy and exuberant best friends. Drinks or dinner with those excellent kindred spirits who are our friends. Opening the Gallery halfway through getting my hair cut and coloured.

Laughter definitely makes the world go round.

One of the great pleasures of 2020 arrived in the form of Imogen Ivy, our divine grandbaby. I am the worst singer in the known universe, but Immy gives me the courage to sing to her at the top of my voice. I have remembered all those long-forgotten nursery rhymes and ditties. We have reminisced our own childhoods. We have poured over photographs of Callum and Bronwyn, Immy's fabulous parents when they were babies and children. We recognise her mannerisms as being echoes of our families that are instinctive rather than learned. Imogen has provided so many opportunities in her first year for us all to have fun.

So maybe birthdays (and families) have a flip side. Cherishing the rellies as well as just enduring them. Creating those shared experiences and memories that form the foundation of who we truly are. Remembering the hilarious times that have meaning only with those who have always been there.

And on Michael's birthday, last Friday night, I had the utter privilege of watching Michael being loved at an impromptu party with those we are honoured to call our friends. We had fun. The family sent messages of congratulations. Most amusingly were the best wishes from my brother Simon, who is famous for forgetting such trivialities, including his own.

My darling Dad, God bless him, was a true believer of fun. We could learn a thing or two from his attitude to life...

PS Michael may not live to see another birthday after Saturday night's shenanigans. "Patriot Games" was at full throttle on the telly, followed by complaints about boulders in our bed, copious snoring and farting, a desire for a wrap at three o'clock this morning (the food not the blankie) and waking me repeatedly with weird ravings. The final straw was taking over my boulder-free side of the bed...