My birthday always makes me exceptionally grateful for the people I have around me. People send cards and gifts, and take time out of their day to celebrate nothing more than my continued existence. Two of them managed to disappear late on Saturday night only to return to the pub with one of Tesco’s finest chocolate cakes, laden with lit candles, and proceeded to sing happy birthday to me, much to the bemusement of the other revellers I’m sure. It made me very happy. The fact that some of them had travelled to be there made me feel loved. And perhaps most emotional was when one of my colleague-turned-friends handed me a slim cardboard box yesterday, much to my surprise - inside was a painting that she’d done by hand with Indian ink, complete with frame. It was an incredibly sweet gesture, and I’m still a little blown away by it.
People that complain about birthdays are missing out.