Look, I know it’s probably too late now. I know that even as I type this missive, magnificent and multitudinous parcels are winging their way throughout the land, bravely entrusting their precious contents to the vagaries of the Royal Mail. I know that you’ve scoured the shops, emptied your bank accounts, put another couple of hundred on the credit card and sold your first born into slavery in the vain hope that, tomorrow afternoon, (the Edinburgh postal service firmly believes that the concept of mail arriving in the morning is just that - a concept, relative to whether or not its raining and if they can be bothered to walk up the stairs) my face will be radient with joy when I see in what high regard I’m held.

Don’t think I’m not appreciative. I am. Or at least I will be tomorrow. I am always genuinely appreciative and usually tearfully grateful for any mark of consideration shown to me by others on my birthday.

But, I’m older now. Not much older that’s true. Actually not older at all because I’ve decided to stay twenty-seven until PhotoShop and plastic surgery can do no more and then I’ll admit to being fifty three. Until I hit my eighties when I will then tell everyone that I’m ninety five, have an ebony cane and an even more imperious manner than I do now and amuse myself by keeping the whole of my family dancing attendance on me in the vain hope that when I shuffle off I’ll leave them my diamonds and my enormous wealth. I might. I might not. I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking along the lines of having some sort of codicil in my will which would leave them the dosh but only if they have their hair shaved and dyed in a day-glo orange mohican and wear a shocking pink sari at all times.

Anyway the nice thing about turning twenty-seven (again) is that you have the strength of character to say things that younger people might be too afraid or too well mannered to mention. I’m not aiming to cause offence by what comes next and as I’ve already said, I’m always genuinely appreciative - scrub that I’m always absolutely thrilled - at getting any present at all on my birthday. So this isn’t meant or intended to denigrate any gifts that anyone has ever bought for me.

It’s just that for the past two weeks people have been asking me what I want for my birthday. And for the past two weeks I’ve given the same reply. The same thing happened last year too. In fact, I’ve been giving the same reply to this question for as long as I can remember and no-one has ever taken me seriously. I know its quite a big present so I don’t mind if you all club together to get it for me. But it’s not actually a big request. Or a difficult request. It doesn’t involve anything illegal or unsavoury. Others have asked for the same thing and had it granted to them. But, for some reason, whenever I’ve asked for it - the person who put the question in the first place has paused slightly and then laughed.

So, here we go. I am deadly serious. No pauses and no laughing please.

I want a pony for my birthday. I’ve wanted a pony for my birthday ever since I knew what a pony (or a birthday) was. There, that’s not a difficult request to fulfil is it?

I’ve even made it easy for you and picked out the one I want. I want this pony.

(

Because she’s got cool hair.

I realise that A and R will be upset at the thought of parting with Dolly but lets face it, their parents (who obviously love them far more than my parents ever loved me) have a way better track record when it comes to buying ponies and so the chances of them being bought a replacement are pretty high. It would also teach the girls selflessness and kindliness and being good to those much less fortunate than themselves in the pony owning department. Note well that I have said nothing about the fact that as I’m their favourite godmother, having secured a place in their hearts with bribery and affection and letting them have surreptitious swigs out of whatever alcoholic drink I’ve been imbibing at the time, then they owe me their pony. In any case, they’re young and resilient and they’d soon bounce back from the disappointment whereas in my case the fact that I was never given a pony has blighted my life. But I’m only twenty-seven. It’s still not too late to turn it around.

We’re off to Newcastle this weekend (mum’s even threatened to make me a birthday cake). I expect Dollyto be trotted underneath my bedroom window first thing on Saturday morning.

I had just enough money. I’d counted it out. A biscuit tin (shortbread I think) full of tuppence and pennies and not a few ha’pennies too, had been spilled out across the living room table and was now neatly stacked in piles of ten pence’s. When I started to count I’d intended to put them in stacks of a hundred, each one measuring one whole pound, but I always seemed to lose count around seventy nine or, no matter how carefully I drew my fingers to level the sides, a stack would fall, bashing into the others and knocking them down like the dominos my great-uncle set up for me. So, I stuck to tens which seemed to be a far more manageable number.

My fingers were black, my mouth tasted metallic but it was done. I’d counted it out, and had just enough. I even had the bags, the proper bank bags with the funny folding tops to put it in.

Twelve whole pounds. When you’re six this is a fabulous sum, an inconceivable amount. No miser was prouder of his hoard than I and for a while I sat there, staring at it. I resisted the urge to count it again, just to check. It was mine and I could spend it as I liked. I knew what I was going to buy with it, had been planning ever since the night before. I’d worked it out and it all made sense. The bathroom was always cold and Granny and old Grandpa didn’t seem to use it much anyway. There was a plank in the yard I could use as a slide; propped up against the wall it would do the job just fine. It looked pretty smooth so I wasn’t worried about splinters.

It had been on Blue Peter the night before. Edinburgh zoo was starting a scheme where you could adopt an animal. As simple as that – you paid your money and it was yours. I’d ruled out a lion on financial grounds and besides I suspected it might eat the cat. But a baby penguin at ten pounds (I’d worked out it would cost the extra two i had in postage) was affordable and safe.

When mum came to pick me up that evening I proudly explained to her my plan. “I think” she said seriously “that they don’t actually send you the penguin, because there probably aren’t enough of them to post to everyone who sends in ten pounds. Probably, you just get a certificate from the zoo and maybe a picture”

Yesterday we went to the zoo. I still feel cheated.

Edinburgh Zoo Sunday

OK. So I’m getting fascinated by the fact that the bedroom ceiling’s about to cave in. I haven’t lived in a house without a bedroom ceiling for years, ever since herebe put his foot through his bedroom ceiling in the house we had before the house we have now. Even then that wasn’t a proper crashed in ceiling; there was just a gap where his foot had gone through. We left it like that for the next three years (until we moved) as the bats started using it as another way out in the evenings and we didn’t want to upset them.

This time though it won’t be bats that burst out of our belfry. FN has assured me that the problem is not the water tank about to burst but an infestation of the Zeldar. As you all know, the Zeldar is an alien race bent on world domination through mind control. Bring them on, if they can succeed where seven years of catholic school failed then good luck to them. I suspect that they’re already communicating with the real Hendrix cat as all she’s been doing recently is sitting on the bedroom floor and staring ceiling wards with wide eyes (as opposed to all she does usually which is lie on the sofa in the computer room and sleep).

All this is of course is but an excuse as to why there hasn’t been a proper post for ages. (Actually, I was looking through my archives the other day and there hasn’t been a proper post for years!). There is stuff written – or at least half written…but I’m finding that it’s either getting too personal or too writerey (or a horrific combination of both – Herebe would have a fit- how much metaphor can one page take? ) I promise a proper post by the end of the weekend…if the Zeldar don’t get me first.

Remember that damn stupid sentence about all consultants being on holiday and therefore I don’t have much to do. Yes. I jinxed myself… Worked all weekend (so much for our relaxing lazy weekend), just sent off another (different) piece now and amendments to the first have come in. I’m goggle eyed right now…

Oh yes and the bedroom ceiling is leaking (and bulging dangerously).

I’m awake now. Well, not completely awake. I’m still pitching onto the sofa at 5pm every evening for “just a quick sit down while I have a cup of tea” and still waking up an hour or so later, tea undrunk, book on the floor, cocooned in my comfy blanket.
But at least it’s an improvement as for the fortnight before this, the tiredness fairy was whacking me round the back of my head at about 2.30pm and I’d stagger drunkenly to the sofa for a quick sit down, wake up at about 8 in the evening, eat something and then crash out again until the next morning.

Having said that, for the last three mornings I’ve managed to sleep through all my alarms, which is a bugger as I’m back at work and should really be in front of the computer by 9am. Luckily Augusts the month when consultants scatter to the four corners of the globe to do some blue-sky thinking and generally behave in a proactive and non-linear manner and so I haven’t been called upon to create a gradient fill for a couple of weeks now.

Contrary to what most people seem to think when you tell them you’ve been doing a lot of sleeping – it’s not as relaxing as it sounds. There’s a big difference between taking a siesta because it’s a nice day and you have a good book and nothing to do and this terribly treacly tiredness that creeps up behind you, slowing down speech, thought and movement until you feel like you’re a record being played at the wrong speed.

On the other hand, I now appreciate exactly what my goddaughter meant when she said that she didn’t intend to work, she was just going to marry a (rich) vet, have lots of dogs, horses and finches and let him do all the household stuff when he got back from work, while she spent her time being lovely. I can’t say that I’ve been lovely over the past couple of weeks (this wasn’t a miracle cure) but I’m definitely less bad-tempered than usual (this could be because I’ve been asleep for fourteen hours a day though).

During the time that I have been conscious I have managed to do some things. The house is still clean and the washing has been done (and put away instead of languishing in neat piles on the spare bed). I’ve researched stuff on the net that I’ve been meaning to research for a while (I’m trying to track down where in Germany my grandfather was sent to during the war) and although information is scarce I’ve learnt so much that it hasn’t been a waste of time. I’ve even made a start on my family tree and have spent a good few hours trawling through the online census’. I’ve read (and read and read – I’m about two thirds through the book list you all gave me by the way – so if anyone’s read anything interesting recently, stick the title in the comments and I’ll put it on the list).

I’ve written quite a lot too – some of which I may post at a later date (just as soon as I figure out whether or not its suitable for public consumption) and which even if I don’t post has made sense of a lot of things I’ve been banging my head against a wall about for the past year or so.

We’ve been to Newcastle three times in the past six weeks (once to drop off a guitar at the guitar magicians, once to pick it up again and once because we were bored) although we only managed to pick up two speeding tickets (34 and 36 miles per hour in a 30 zone respectively).

I also decided that, renting or not snotty neighbours be damned - there was a bloody big garden out there that no-one was taking any notice of and so I hied me outside and pruned all of the trees. I admit that I was a little saw happy (obviously the Eastern European genes kicked in there as I now have enough firewood to see me through the ice-age) but I also planted a whole heap of stuff that mum shoved into a bin bag for me the last time we were down. So far the neighbours haven’t said anything but I think that’s because they’re somewhat scared of the shouty person (me) that lives upstairs. Put it this way, they’re always lovely to F when they meet him on the stairs and rarely speak to me.

And that’s me up to date. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight.