All I want for my birthday is f-ing sunshine

So I had a LOVELY birthday. Lovely. There was colour, there was alcohol and there was a poem – a rhyming one at that – about my apparent love of profanity. I should qualify that most of the poem, written by my lovely husband, concerned the fucking dreadful English weather but I concede there may be some truth amid the rhyming couplets, shit weather or not.

I mean when I say shit weather, it didn’t POUR, but there was enough consistent drizzle to warrant concern about my new purple Parisian shoes and not even the faintest lick of lily-livered sun to give hope to proceedings.

But I’ve had five English birthdays now and not one of them has had anything resembling summer weather so it would be a stretch to say I was disappointed. More like mildly fucking resigned. And then happily distracted.

I haven’t really celebrated my birthday in any epic or even vaguely en masse way since my 30th. Not because I don’t love birthdays, but because the last couple have just felt a little melancholy, thinking about my Nan and missing my fellow Gemini.

So kudos to the lovely boy who last year took me to Brighton for the day and yesterday, took me to my Columbia Rd happy place for some serious floral purchasing before lunch at José in Bermondsey. Oh yeah – and AMAZING cupcakes, which I ate for breakfast.

José was a favourite local spot for Tor and Andy when they were resident in Borough. We never had the pleasure of eating there with them but we took their recommendations with us – tomato bread, tortilla, croquettes. Tick. We also had crazily good asparagus, padron peppers and a plate of iberico jamon. Oh and prosecco.

With a ridiculous mound of flowers beneath my feet and a seat at the buzzing bar next to my lovely poet husband, well life presented a perfect moment in time. And a girl should be grateful for those.