Happy, Birthday

It was my birthday. And in celebration the day walked straight out of a Bergman film. No, not the kind for wearing straw hats and slicing open the persona. Or the kind to go searching for wild strawberries in the autumn of life. But the kind that would seem perfectly art directed for accepting washed up knights and their squires. Or for making carriages disappear into the fog of a Scandinavian forest. In short, the right kind of day to mark the end of my 'biblical age'.

But there was no crucifixion waiting for me. Nor mobs or hangmen. In fact, nobody and nothing marked this passage. Except the day. The perfect day. And then they arrived not hordes of strangers baying for my blood but a monkey carrying a banner possibly bearing good wishes. And a little gondola in Venice sailing on a blue strip possibly hoping for my return. And the birds in the trees and the flowers and the green hills of Tuscany. And the Coot with a stern reminder of a promise made and not yet fulfilled.

So, I invited all of them in for a glass of wine and some cake. Then as the hour was getting late one by one they excused themselves promising to return someday. And so I had another happy birthday.