Happy Everything!

Do 21st birthdays really matter? The one at our house last weekend did. Family bonding at its best. In the grog shop the weekend before, where debates raged over the best brand of cider, and in the café on the corner where we decided on the menu with a wise caterer who recommended lots of carbs. On the night, in the kitchen with the extended family, well away from a tent that contained most of the mischief and afterwards with just a few left, to scoff mud cake over a cuppa and a chat.


Almost a week later, as I crawl back into civilization and reflect on the evening, I give thanks for the following, in order of importance:-

• The bus (that came an hour early and waited patiently) to transport 90 partygoers away from my home

• My dad, who came, stayed late and loved it, though his “by their age I was commanding a platoon” comment momentarily floored me

• The manners of the lovelies who came adorned with huge smiles, long legs and handkerchief-sized dresses

• The manners of others in skinny jeans and skinny shirts who shook my hand too hard, pecked my cheek and told me how much they loved the party, the birthday boy, life and even me, depending on their level of sobriety, or not. BTW, what’s with everything skinny?

• The neighbours who wished us well and went out to late dinner

• The friends who have known the birthday boy since he was young, who wouldn’t have missed it

• The recovery, with eight bleary-eyed sweeties pouring over photos and nibbling leftovers

• And finally, the hard earned living that allowed us to outsource most of the work

Yep: there’s a lot to love about a party, but did I mention the bus?