THIRTY-FOUR

I started last weekend with a sense of dread.

I hate birthdays. I like the presents and long-distance phone calls but I always get too bloody introspective, fretting about the things I didn't accomplish in the past year. I expected it too be worse than usual last weekend - being stuck home alone and without the welcome distraction of any partying.

I arrived home from work on Friday cheered to see a package delivery notice from DHL. I called the number and asked them to deliver the packages that evening. Hey, two boxes from Canada. I expected presents. Groovy!

The DHL guy arrived at around 21:15 and I signed for one of the parcels – the second one was misplaced. I read the customs slip and it said ”photos, books and personal effects.”

Crap!

There were no presents for me, just some stuff I'm storing for a friend who's moving here.

Thoroughly depressed by the DHL man, I made myself a reasonably nice dish of pasta with tomato and black olive sauce. Then, I opened a bottle of 2001 Chilean carmenre. I wouldn't usually drink a bottle of wine by myself but my birthday was rapidly approaching and I felt like celebrating.

Actually, I felt like getting maudlin and reminiscing about the past with the aid of my record collection. I didn't start out being maudlin: working my way through Bikini Kill, Joan Jett, the Pixies and Ramones was rather cheering. Eventually, though, I'll always get stuck on a mournful Elvis Costello number that hits me.

This time it was the acoustic version of Poor Fractured Atlas from the Costello & Nieve tour. I finished the wine and went and threw myself upon my mattress.

Saturday was a bit better. At dragonboating, I was invited to a party for that evening. Better still, it was a party for a friend of mine. Even better, it was a birthday party. It was my birthday so, naturally, I shanghaied it.

My most interesting conversation of the night was with a military analyst named Jeff who recently published a book on US spy operations in the Pacific theatre during WW2. He was contracted to the defense department during the 9/11 aftermath and for the planning stages of the Iraq invasion.

He was critical of the planning phases of the Iraq invasion - particularly the absence of adequate planning for the occupation. He noted that the Pentagon folk don’t care much for Wolfowitz, who had overruled some of the more robust plans the for occupation.

The friction between the Wolfie/Rummy and the generals is not a big secret. Jeff didn’t discuss anything confidential - but the first-hand insight on the decision-making processes at the Pentagon was fascinating. However, as it was a drunken late-night chat, I’ll refrain from recalling any of the more insightful comments here.

On to matters less sensitive and less serious, Jeff was from North Carolina, so the conversation eventually drifted to Superchunk, Polvo and the Archers of Loaf.

I continued to get less serious and spent the latter half of the evening dancing like a lunatic to 1980s music. I retired at around four – having had a thoroughly enjoyable birthday.

This was a rather difficult post for to me to write. Not because I bared anything deeply personal - that was part of the point of the blog.

It's just that my cat has recently started coming up to my office. He keeps getting tangled up in cables and stepping on my keyboard.

He also seems to have developed a taste for Post-it notes. He keeps trying to tear them off my PC and monitor.

Then he tries to eat them.

Jeeves is, as usual, no help whatsoever.