THERE is nothing quite like celebrating a birthday in mid-January.
As the rest of Spain pledges never to touch a drop, go vegan, enroll at the nearest gym or posts life-affirming quotes on social media – ‘It’s Going Be My Year! I’m ready to receive my abundance of blessings!
Embrace your inner warrior princess!’ etc – and generally vows to turn over a new leaf, January 19 means that I turn another year older.
Due to my, ahem, lifestyle change a while back, my birthday celebrations are no longer the week-long, decadent ‘Fall of Rome’ scenarios that they were. The fact that I am pointing the right way up is celebration enough.
Because I now get up when I used to get in, pottering around the casita and talking to the animals, while pouring yet another coffee, is reward enough.
Birthday presents this year included a dark beanie hat and black scarf, which I decided to wear as I drove to the studio.
As it was a cold day I flung on my black leather jacket and dark jeans, as well as black fingerless gloves. My basic ‘Mossad operative between missions’ look, which gets me through the queue at Mercadona quickly, I can assure you.
Suddenly I realised that I had forgotten my mask, so pulled up at the nearest chemist.
“I’d like a mask please,” I called from the doorway. “Certainly sir”, replied the assistant looking wearily at my black clad form. “What colour would you like?”
I decided that perhaps pink wouldn’t suit the look.
Black mask purchased, I once again contemplated my theory on why Japanese Ninjas are the worst in the world. It goes something like this.
If I say the word ‘Ninja’, you immediately associate this with a stealthy and silent Japanese figure, clad head to toe in black.
My theory that Japanese Ninjas are the worst in the world is because everyone knows what they look like; they are hardly silent and unseen.
Which opens up the possibilities that there are other nations that have Ninjas that are so stealthy and deadly that no one knows what they look like.
I rather like the idea of Jamaican Ninjas….
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