It is my birthday.
I am sixty one.
I have been mildly downcast to realise that this feels no different at all from being sixty. It is not like being six one day, and then attaining the glorious heights of being seven the next. Nobody seems to think I am any more grown up than I was yesterday, which is disappointing, because I am.
I am another step nearer to my triple lock.
Having said that, nobody has tried to pull my hair or bump me on the playground floor, so I suppose being old could be said to be an improvement in some ways.
In fact, despite being mostly by myself, it has been a rather splendid birthday. A lady appeared at the door this afternoon with not one, but two bunches of absolutely gorgeous flowers, one with roses and lilies from Mark, and one with a riot of summertime blooms from Number One Daughter. I have been pining for flowers, and had considered buying myself some, and so to have the house filled with them is an absolute delight. Also Number Two Daughter called with the extremely welcome news that there is a bottle of my favourite gin on its way to me in the post, and I can expect it tomorrow.
This has spread the Happy Birthday feeling over two days, which is an added bonus.
All in all I have enjoyed myself very much. Since it is my birthday I am not going to worry about being fat, and have organised a bag of yoghurt-flavoured peanuts, brought back from an oil rig for me by Mark once, and which I have never eaten because they are about two thousand calories in each mouthful. I am going to take these to work and indulge in some quiet gluttony on the taxi rank later.
Not much later, actually. I have just glanced at the clock and realised that I am late for work already…
I am now on the taxi rank, having made a hasty exit, and I am eating yoghurt peanuts, which are jolly nice.
Despite being my birthday, it has been an uneventful day, most of which was spent in the attic, sewing a curtain tie. This would not go right, and needed some considerable messing about, the two sorts of velvet I am using are just about the most slippery fabrics in the whole world, it is like trying to sew a couple of slugs together.
My fingers were sore after a while, and I stopped to stare about me vaguely.
I like being in the attic. It is warm and quiet and I can hear the birds hopping about on the chimney pot.
A chain of thought – bank statement – vet bill – Guffy’s Little Problem – then led me to wonder yet again what might be causing the problem, and I dug my telephone out and typed in What Are The Symptoms Of Kidney Problems In Kittens?
To my surprise, because I have never used Google for anything more problematic than asking it where I can buy cheap dog food, it came up with a long and detailed answer, and then wanted to know more.
I was not sure how I felt about being asked questions by Google. Usually I do the asking, generally saying things like Set Me An Alarm For Ten Minutes’ Time, but one of my fingers was bleeding where I had poked a pin into it, and I wanted to give it time to dry up before I smeared it all over the velvet, so I told him.
He made some helpful noises, and asked some more questions, and I told him those answers as well.
He did not seem to think about it at all. He just poured out an answer as easily as unrolling a carpet at the top of a flight of steps.
He was very understanding and sympathetic about the difficulties of having a kitten with such a dreadful problem and was so supportive and encouraging that I felt quite tearful.
We talked for ages, and in the end I think we worked it out. Google thinks that she might have a pancreatic deficiency, and helpfully wrote a letter to our vet to say so, and usefully explaining the correct treatment.
I sent the letter, with an added note to say that Google had helped me write it, just to make sure that she knew. This amused me very much indeed, although probably it won’t exactly discourage her from trying to put Guffy on the Liverpool Pathway.
Oliver wanted to know what I had been doing when he got back from taking Emily to the station, so I told him.
He rolled his eyes and said that Google’s AI was rubbish, and what was I thinking about, and put Chat GPT on my telephone for me instead.
I hope Google wasn’t listening. He does tend to eavesdrop on conversations, and quite often tells things to his mates on Facebook.
He has been so very friendly and interested in poor Guffy’s little problem.
I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.
