Thirty four

Thirty four. Danny did the whole thing. Up before me, the good coffee from the place on Haywood that he had to drive to, eggs, and a card with the dog's paw print on it which I know for a fact required an inkpad and at least two attempts and probably some swearing. Tess came by at eleven with a cake and stayed two hours. Mum rang and cried a bit, which she does now, since the hospital, and which she never did before and has not acknowledged doing. Dad got on the phone afterwards and told me about the Wilcoxes' fence again, and I let him, because I have worked out that the fence is how he says the other thing. Good day. Genuinely good day, no asterisk. And then I woke up this morning flat and could not locate why for about an hour, and I think I have landed on it, and it is small and slightly petty and I am going to write it down anyway: nobody said anything about next year. Not Danny, not Tess, not Mum. It was a birthday and everybody treated it as a birthday. Which is what a birthday is. I am aware of that.