I think I've successfully managed to turn off all the automated 'happy birthday' messages from various social media services, so hopefully no one else noticed.
I've had computers tell me it's my birthday for over forty years, and the novelty of an automated birthday email has worn off a bit.
Once 67 would have been considered old, but now, well, I still ride my bike, albeit slowly, and yesterday I found myself looking at automated text extraction tools. Really! at your age ...
So 67 is really just rather late middle age, the slightly disturbing time when you don't yet feel old, but start getting emails to tell you that so-and-so you once knew vaguely has shuffled off the mortal coil.
Well, I guess it happens to all of us sooner or later.
So, rather than be depressed by the march of time, we had a little celebration.
As it often does, my birthday had coincided with the Labour day long weekend, which meant that all the restaurants had been booked for weeks ahead, and while we were offered a cancellation at one place, it was at a singularly stupid time, so instead we made a mock Edwardian high tea, with little designer sausage rolls, asparagus in pastry, and little salmon sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off all washed down with a bottle of champagne while we sat in the yard and watched the sky turn from orange to midnight blue as the stars came out.
Not a bad birthday at all ...
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