You look THAT much older
than fifteen years ago.
None of which I realised at the time, as I had got fantastic tickets to a lovely little play and sold my soul for a seat at the most fabulous luvvies restaurant for post-play deliciousness, expensive cocktails and shameless, libellous eavesdropping.
At the interval, having sat with a smacked-arse face through the first half, he announced he wanted to go home. I had wondered how a dyed-in-the-wool Conservative would deal with grinning Tony and the un-English leaping and whooping, so I was not too surprised.
I suggested we went to the restaurant early and drown his election sorrows. To my surprise, he declined, and mooched off along the river, glumly and silently ignored the pile of presents, and went to bed.
It turned out that he was gutted at the end of his youth. Having previously skipped about in a state of Peter-Pan-dom, he could not believe he was a grand old man of thirty. It took days for him to even realise that Labour were in power.
I will spare you the carnage that was his 40th.
He is 47 tomorrow. We have a pile of hidden presents, some stashed fizz should he wake up with a smile and some very strong coffee if not. The children know not to mention numbers and to exclaim hourly at how much younger he looks than last year. I have planned nothing more elaborate than a walk on the beach with the dog. We might stop for a piece of cake if the storm clouds keep away.
A new Government is, it seems, totally beyond any of us.
*Of the British public, you understand. Not Edward. In a million years.