On postponing birthdays

I have a time-honoured birthday tradition, a tradition I uphold despite my valiant attempts to do otherwise year after year; the Birthday Bawl. At some point during my birthday, I know that something, be it a kitten, dead or alive, or the sheer weight of a year's worth of hopes and expectations, will reduce me to weeping rubble. This year was no different, but this year I had good cause (or so I believe). I spent the day cycling around London alone in the rain, going from interviews to auditions with a light purse and boots heavy with endless precipitation. My birthday celebrations were formally held on Sunday, in an overcast Hyde Park, where a circle of the truly interesting, lovely people I have come to know in this wild town gathered around a picnic rug to drink champagne, share their food and indulge in the cupcakes and afghans that Amber and I had baked. This was a dream come true, and I had a wonderful day. Just looking around the circle of bright, animated faces and knowing that I had gathered this unlikely bunch together was enough to make me joyful, and it was a better present than I could have hoped for (although the beautiful vintage Oscar De La Renta scarf from Frances was pretty close!). But the ugly reality of trying to celebrate my birthday on my own on a grim Tuesday was too much for this girl. As I stood with my head under the hand dryer in the Ladies' at the Tate, trying to dry out my hair (at least in this I wasn't alone; a young American tourist was vainly trying to dry her socks at the unit next to me), I decided to give up all pretence of celebration and postpone the act of birthday-ing to another day. That done, I got on with life. I looked at some exquisite British portraits in the sumptuous caverns of the Tate (I lingered over Sarah Siddons, and some glorious society portraits by John Singer Sargeant and the beautifully enigmatic Cholmondeley Ladies, which depicts a set of twins who were born, married and gave birth on the same days). And, having fed my soul, I went off to Pineapple for a jazz class with Linda, who gives a solid, thorough, professional class. And then I went home and indulged in The Birthday Bawl. I felt tired, and entirely lacking in hope. I suppose birthdays can always be postponed until a more fortuitous time. Sadly, though, they can't be foregone altogether.