Sigh. Today is my birthday. I hate my birthday.
I can’t recall why I started hating my birthday. I can’t remember when I started hating my birthday.
Birthdays do not a happy Christopher England make.
Birthdays cause a different reaction to my lovely life partner. She likes them. She enjoys all the fuss and tradition that goes with birthdays, whilst I prefer to cower with my fingers in my ears gently sobbing, hidden in a secret den constructed by letting a blanket hang over the side of the table.
Sadly, my lovely life partner and I are ‘birthday celebration incompatible’. She kindly makes a brilliant fuss and puts herself out for birthdays, being the naturally caring and loving soul that she is.
However, I’m starting to think that my self-pitying wails and tendency to spend the day in the fetal position are wearing a bit thin. She is getting a bit annoyed by my childishness. I can hear the intake of breath followed by a slightly forced exhale, as she lifts the blanket to ask if I’m okay.
The other problem is that my fear of my own birthday rather selfishly means that I am a bit inadequate and probably somewhat callous when it comes to other people’s birthdays.
So, the bottom line is that I realise I have an issue that needs to be sorted. But where do I go? And can I get repaired before Valentine’s Day?