7 April

Oh what a day was yesterday. The garden seemed to shimmer in a dream of sunlit ease. We had lunch outside, in a shower of blossom, other buds breaking out around us. The children played happily for once, all loose-limbed and free without the encumbrance of scratchy jumpers or snaggy tights. I even fell asleep in the garden, stretched out like a cat in the sun. Bliss in April, filled with the promise of summertime still to come.

Today is R’s birthday, Easter weekend to boot, so hot cross buns mixed with birthday cake for us. We’re all babies about birthdays in this house, adoring the celebrations, the rituals. The children love to help form family traditions, the best-loved being the winning idea (I take all the credit) of bringing the cake with its halo of candles to the bed of the birthday child/adult, and everyone allowed a slither before breakfast. I am always envious of R for having his birthday at this time of year, all primroses and bleating lambs, (though we have spent plenty years sheltering from hail and sleet). Mine is in the beginning of February, a dank and dreary time of year, when the loss of another year can seem crushing. His, to me at least, are all promise and re-birth.

Given our somewhat pressing need to economise at the moment, today will be frugal compared to some of the birthday extravaganzas we held long ago. Yet bizarrely I have never been better pleased with the presents I bought him (I think he’d agree)., despite their ludicrous cheapness. Good for the venal offspring, as well, to see that it’s the thought that counts, though I’m not sure they’d agree if it were applied to their own festivities. Anyway, what more could he want – home with the family, home-made birthday cake in bed, streaming sun, waited on hand and foot all day?