Hestia...and Tartarus's birthday

Hestia with her new leggings

It began on Friday.  Tartarus went off to the memorial gig for our friend Jim who died rather suddenly a month or so ago.  It was a sort of blue-grass night, where they did covers of all Jim's favourite songs - whether they were by the Doors, Dr Feelgood or Donny Osmond.  Only kidding about the Donny Osmond.  Even so, it was quite an eclectic evening by all accounts.



Sonshine and I wanted to go, but alas there were no tickets left.  How convenient.  Anyway, off hubby went.

Tartarus was staying over with Lovely Dad and his family and catching up with a whole load of unsavoury types (ie old friends).  Vast amounts of drink were consumed.

Hubby clearly (sort of)  remembers going upstairs to bed....but actually woke up in the morning on the sofa downstairs.  A toilet trip too far, methinks.  I've yet to discover whether a small pool of stale pee has materialised in the corner of any of Lovely Dad's children's bedrooms...

Anyway, while he was gone, Sonshine and I set about Baking The Birthday Cake. I got the receipe for a sponge from the wee Asda magazine and we cruelly whipped away the Kitchenaid's virginity with a sponge cake mixture and lemon buttercream combo.

By the time Tartarus came home on Saturday night, the cake was done, the kitchen floor had been hoovered twice and FOUR lots of washing up had taken place.  Sadly, he still managed to comment that we had got flour on the kitchen bin lid.  I told him quietly to stick it up his arse and poured myself a whisky and ginger ale.

Tartarus remained upright for the duration of dinner on Saturday night and then collapsed in a 'late onset hangover' and had to be helped to his bed at 9pm.  I believe that Jon Bon Jovi has very similar Saturday nights.

Today was Tartarus's 47th birthday and, thanks to a slight blunder with the number-candles, we actually celebrated his 74th.  We brought him his cards and a hastily purchased book (let's not forget that the Playstation and steering wheel combo was his real birthday pressie).

We had offered to do him breakfast in bed, but he's not that sort of a bloke, so I got breakfast in bed instead - and the Sunday papers.  So I lay there reading and supping herbal tea until after midday.  I bet Barbara Cartland didn't even know such luxury.

It was a gorgeous day here and we soon set about the garden.  That's the problem with having a garden, you never actually get to sit in it and enjoy it because there's all the sodding weeding and watering to get through.  Tartarus's conrtibution to the gardening today was to wash the car.  I hacked back a big weed tree thing to allow my lovely lilac a bit of breathing space.  In the process, I nearly took my eye out twice with rogue branches and almost performed a tracheotomy on myself.  Gardening is dangerous stuff.

Sonshine cycled around the garden anxiously - he was going to a birthday party and did not want to miss the moment of his father blowing out the candles on the cake we made.  So I high-tailed it into the kitchen, lit the candles off the gas ring in the kitchen and gingerly carried the cake out to the garage so that we could all have a slice before Sonshine left for the party.

I tried to take a carefully staged photo as a keepsake, but Tartarus was getting a bit snappy ('just take the bloody photograph') which sent me reeling into a bad mood ('we've spent hours making this fucking thing you ungrateful bastard' and other profanity-spattered thoughts abounded - but I said nothing as I am working on my Law of Attraction stuff. Don't ask.)

Ignore all the extraneous shit behind the cake.  Look at the CAKE.  Is it not a thing of magnificent pulchritude?

I focussed my attention on the SPECTACULAR sponge cake that we'd made, and cut 3 slices from the cake.  Tartarus ate his bit in silence.  Eventually, he decreed that it was 'alright'. (see: earlier ungrateful bastard comment).  It is possibly the most expensive birthday cake in history.  I'll need to make a few more cakes to make the 'fashion maths' of buying the Artisan mixer worthwhile.

This evening we went out for dinner with my Day Carer and her husband R by way of celebratory birthday dinner.  R and Tartarus have signed up to go to the Moto GP in Assen (Holland) in June.  He has agreed to take Sonshine and I to the Isle of Man for a holiday.  Hold me back.

The meal was my treat so I had been buggering about in the bedroom for about an hour, trying to get suitably dressed for a Birthday Dinner.

I had my new control pants on (uncomfortable - where does all that extra flesh go? My organ cavities? Sure felt like it) and slipped into my new M&S suedette leggings.  Pulled on a lovely cream silk blouse top thing and my gold high heels.  I thought I looked lovely.  But the control pants were REALLY uncomfortable and the shiny surface was making my new leggings slip down my hips.  I looked like Max Wall on a really bad day.

Tartarus came up to the bedroom to get changed as I was parading around in my gold shoes, wondering whether I could walk 5 minutes into town in them.  He said sagely:  'you'll not be able to walk to the restaurant in them, will you?'

He changed shirt and I pondered the wisdom of going out for dinner feeling uncomfortable.  Usually, I reckon it's worth it.  But it was HIS birthday and he'd only changed his shirt.....

He disappeared off to pick up Sonshine from the Meerkat's birthday party.  I made a snap decision and got changed into my jeans and a denim shirt.  Yes.  Double denim.  And comfortable sandals.  But nice Mexican silver jewellery.

Reader, would it surprise you to learn that he did not notice that I had changed outfit until we were walking down to the hotel?  No, I thought not ;-)

Truthfully, on days like this I secretly harbour a desire to trade him in for a more attentive model - but would that model be prepared to buy me a kitchenaid mixer or whisk me away to the Isle of Man?  Hmmm - if he was a more attentive model, I suspect I wouldn't care either way ;-D