birthday

perhaps in recompense, or maybe to balance the debauchery of the celebrations so far, i have had a perfectly tame, G-rated day (lest you be afeared of declarations like those below dear reader).

well, unless you count a fahion faux pas as equally taboo and risque. kitted out in white lace skirt months after labor day, with an ashes of roses cardigan - that name probably being the only thing I got out of the Thornbirds - it has rhinstone flower buttons (eat your heart out jennie) with pink tweed heels to match, i set off to Glasgow, with teal handbag to hold the shoe-induced cab fare.

an hour on the train in the moorish lowlands dropped me in the depths of urban glasgow. a jaunt through a shopping haven and I was off to the Winter Gardens - the conservatory attached to the Peoples Palace on the Glasgow Green (yes they actually name shit like that).

A trio of violin, harp and flute serenaded my tropical cafe lunch, and then continued peeping though the palm trees as i read a book on Austen Mandy gave me for my birthday, perched on a bench hidden among the flora.

A wander through the palace, then a tour guide cabbie, and now I am home. Tranquil, rested, and inspired to begin Persuasion for the third time in my life. Perhaps I am old enough now to not be bored by quietude and lost love.




Or perhaps I still dream of romance, even if i'll 69 a stranger.