Happy Actual 30th Birthday To Me… The Epilogue

The daffodils are out, and I am 30. Or, as I like to put it, 15 again. After a 6.30am wake up yodel I eat chocolate cake for breakfast, open gifts from The Kiwi and family NZ then dance around the living room to You Are The Sunshine Of My Life, Walking On Sunshine and Let The Sunshine In (anyone seeing a theme emerging here?).
Big T The Merciful and Babs (aka Grandpa and Nannie) pop over and are delighted at the antics of La Bambini El Petito. Big Tel informs me that "The only time you really live fully is from thirty to sixty. The young are slaves to dreams; the old servants of regrets. Only the middle-aged have all their five senses in the keeping of their wits." (We thanks ye, Hervey Allen).
After a smidgen more of the extreme chocolate cake (approximately one hundred thousand grams of choc, 1g of flour and stuff and a bit of sugar) we head off to The Hollybush in Hampstead.
Friends dribble in, some with their offspring, some with a minging head ache from the night before, all with an appetite for a good Sunday roast.
Nannie takes Bambi for a gander around the shops (as one of my friends so eloquently puts it: "You've invited all the other babies and binned off your own") but it means that I get to mingle with my buddies – some who go as far back as Brownies, some from as recently as the day the dinkydots were born – and engage in actual adult conversation. However, I seem to spend most of my time being far too excited about the fact that I am wearing a dress, heels and make-up for the first time in about a year and don't have any baby-vom in my hair. Binned-off-baby then graces us with her presence post-roast, shouts and dribbles at a few folk and we take her for a walk on the Heath.
Generous gifts aside (it has become clear that I'm more Cath Kidston than Topshop, but who gives a schizz? Not I), I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. From Tinseltown to London Town – Merci Marmont, but I'd take this rabble over Loony Li-Lo and Skinny-Briches Richie any day.