The Birthday Boy

The gods looked kindly on my cousin today as he celebrated his eightieth birthday in glorious sunshine at the home of his younger niece, Magpie. He had travelled from his home in Kirkcaldy to Edinburgh in a roundabout route via Linlithgow, having missed a crucial turn off after the Forth Road Bridge.

It was a perfect day for a celebration with the door open to the garden and a feast fit for kings on the table.
We ate and quaffed wine until the octogenarians present became a bit wobbly on their feet and needed to sit down and rest their eyes.

The younger ones amongst us tried valiantly to steer the conversation away from the perils awaiting us in old age, but when this proved impossible we all managed to laugh at the small indignities which will surely come to us all.

It was a typical family party with much remembrances of gatherings in the past with relations who are no longer alive. I find it rather comforting that in the future I and my generation will live on in family sagas which will be given an airing at occasions such as today.

The birthday boy was caught resting his eyes just before the arrival of his birthday cake, when he was required to waken up and blow out the candles.