I thought about blogging today. What would I say? Happy birthday to me? Naaaaaaaa.

I wasn't going to until I clicked on my profile to see if the ticker had rolled over to 51; it had, so I had to comment.

But first I clicked on my blog from last year on my State of California minted BD, nice one, and how the heck does Me top that one?

So I am not even going to try.

Happy birthday to me.

One of my neighbours, who has something of a mad crush (poor guy) on me, brought over two birthday cards with the warning one of the cards is very mushy (oh swell); my co-workers gave me a card and brownies-not the '70's kind, sigh.

I think back, ten toes-ALL TEN (take that slag, and you know who I am talking about you bloody identity thief!), still attached after fifty-one years, although that blasted arthritis makes me wonder how much longer, hehe.

Ten fingers, damned arthritis again, but I've had that in my hands most of my life. It's kept me from my one true love-the violin. Oh yeah, I can drag a bow across the strings-for a few minutes that descend into the inevitable screech/caterwaul. For that I should take up the pipes, eh?

Hey Fox, do you remember how we used to torment Crusty by getting out the tape of the 'screaming cats'? (The screaming cats being the fine Frasier lads on bagpipes...)


Any road, I think back-did my mother count those now achy fingers and toes in the nearly universal moment of awe?

The way I marvelled at Fox on his first day? His sister, but not on her first day-I really did almost die giving birth to her, and wasn't able to even lift my head from the ICU bed until she was nearly a week old, much less marvel and coo over my newborn daughter. But I did, finally. She, like her younger brother 4 and one half years later, was amazing!

Did my mum think the same about me? Before she left and went home to Britain? Did she come out to see us when we'd holiday in Bolton?

(dear God, who in their right mind packs a load of children across the ocean to holiday in Bolton, Lancashire, for crying out loud-I refused to go once I was old enough, everyone acted so completely odd on those wretched trips!)

Her children she could peep at through a hedge but never speak to, touch, hold, rescue?

(For that matter, who raises their children in the middle of the California desert completely surrounded by fellow ex-pat Brits and East Indian exchange students, educates those poor children in a Roman Catholic private school run by German nuns, who I swear to you, brothers and sisters WERE the exiled daughters of hunted SS officers? Zounds, no wonder I'm 'strange')

I was raised by my dad and his second wife; I didn't know #2 was not my mother until I was around 16, although no-one knocked themselves out to confirm my older sisters angry tirade on the back porch until shortly before my dad died.

But in my heart, I knew the woman we called Alice Capone was not, no waaaaaay, my real, live, mom.

For all the lost years, I've wondered, did my real mother, who left me with my father in her heartbreak at his adultery with the aforementioned Alice Capone, get to spend a few awe filled and joyous moments with me that morning fifty-one years ago?

Any road, where ever you are, Mummy, I want to say:

Thank-you. My life has been the epitome of the Chinese curse-lived in interesting times; it has not been easy; I've never known much of any real love but God's. But I'm so glad to have the chance to run the race.

BTW, Pop wanted me to tell you something-

He never stopped loving you or hoping he would look up and see you crossing the threshold again, he always completely regretted his stupidity; he did his best to teach me to be a good person,and not a burden on society.

He tried to teach me to never ever give up hope.

So thank-you for that, too, that you gave me a Dad like that.

I wish I knew you.

Happy birthday to me.

Oh yeah. I know about the dates. See you Wednesday.

Hey, hope floats! Fox could show up, too:)

Happy birthday to me, and many more.