Happy Birthday to ME – ME, ME, ME!!!

A couple of years ago, Paspartout claimed what she termed a “birthday week”, and that I had to be “nice” to her all week. Well, I had a birthday last week (no, you don’t get the number – that’s not important right now), so I thought I’d play the same game and require that she be nice to me for a full seven days – in a row – as it was MY “birthday week”. So…

The week started fairly uneventfully – I’d just come back from a week’s snowboarding in the Haute Savoie with my good friend Bob, so all good there – and so I simply relaxed (and checked/packed my kit) for what remained of the weekend and Monday. I’m between contracts at the moment, so I try to make sure that the chores get done during the day, but my father came over to see me on Tuesday, which was great as we hadn’t really spoken for nearly a fortnight so a nice long natter was a tad overdue. It looked like the chores were going to take a back seat for quite a while…

Then Wednesday (my big day, so to speak) came around – a chocolate cake with candles for my super-healthy breakfast started my morning, and got me all sugar-rushed up (yo!). Should I do the chores? Na – let’s go out and play, we’re off to my favourite local Chinese place for dinner later!

Thursday we had a power cut – NOOOOO! – I had to go out to the coffee shop to get my internet fix, which meant me being all caffeined up for the rest of the day (which was just as well, as I ended up going out to a friend’s leaving work do – out at 5:30, home at 02:30 – oops!

Friday – big lights, bright city (or something like that!). Paspartout’s treat for me was beginning to take shape: we booked into the Park Lane Hotel at 3pm (I’ll say that again: the Park Lane Hotel), and later trundled out into the town. Paspartout was dragging me hither and thither through the streets, whilst I was saying things like: “er, how about a drink in here – here looks good?”, all the while thinking: this is shit, I’d quite to relax for my birthday treat, but for now I’d just settle for slowing the fuck down … a bit. We pulled up to a pub (screeched to a halt, more like), with Paspartout saying “this will do”. OK, in for a beer – w00t! I walked up to the bar, peering to see what they had on tap, and of course didn’t realise that I’d stood immediately next to my brother! I wandered along the bar at for a better look, turned to my left to ask Paspartout what she wanted to drink, and looked up at this bloke who looked just like my … WAIT – that’s my brother! DUUUUUDE! I thought he and Paspartout where going to ruin their underwear, they were laughing so much! Bastards! A couple of beers and off to the Diner on Ganton Streeet – good food, good music, terrific waitress (Carly?), great times.

Saturday was a shopping day, but in the evening I was instructed to don a suit, and follow Paspartout through the streets of Mayfair. Along Park street, I suddenly thought “please let it be Locanda Locatelli again, pleeeease!” (well, it was dinner time, and I was hungry!). I was faithfully following as we turned onto Upper Brook Street, when – whoosh – a quick turn up some steps, and I was faced with … Le Gavroche … I’ll say that once again: Le Gavroche. Beyond here, my mind turns to jelly, as I’m lost in the memory. The joy is too overwhelming to explain fully – I might manage it in 2015.

THEN, as if all that wasn’t enough, we topped the weekend out with a trip to Bristol to see Stephen Lynch in concert. Funny, talented, irreverent (and on such an angelic face!).

I love you, Paspartout…

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