There's a rumour going around that today is my birthday. After some deliberation, I have decided to confess. Yes, it's true. Today is, in fact, my birthday.
One of the reasons I wasn't gonna say anything is because the whole day has been such a complete non-event. The big treat of the day was a foofy coffee from *insert Huge Corporate Conglomerate Coffee Franchise here*, not the cheap filter coffee I usually make for myself. I went to work, went to the gym and came home. I had a shower. I ate two cold leftover sausages and a bowl of cornflakes, which is the only food in the house at the moment. I called my mother and scraped her down from the ceiling about all things Ivan related.
Now, I can hear you all, with a collective gasp of astonishment saying: where is E.? How could E., whose treatment of small ponies is usually so exemplary, be absent? Today of all days? Well. We'll come onto to the detail of that in another post later. It's a long story, but (more or less), it's cool.
However, I did suggest that it would be a grand gesture for him to send flowers to me at work today. You know, the kind of overblown romantic display which might be expected on the birthday of one's beloved partner, particularly when said partner is a little down.
The subsequent conversation, conducted by e-mail, went something like this:
M: It's my birthday. Where the fuck are my flowers?
E: Do you have any idea how much it costs to send flowers?
M: No, because you never send them.
E: To get a nice bunch costs £XX. For £XX I could buy you [insert number of desirable covetable items of a more permanent nature].
M: Mmm. I note I don't have any of those things either.
E: Oh. Well. Yes. Mmm.
Anyway. I'll see him tomorrow, and so I will postpone my childlike giddiness at the prospect of presents until then.
In the meantime, it may interest you to know that in horse years I am 10 years and 4 months old.
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