65

Yesterday, I turned 65. I took a selfie—something I rarely do, so I’m not very good at it—sitting on the sofa. Which is about as energetic as I’ve been for the last 17 days: I’ve been through the worst bout of viral gastroenteritis I’ve ever had, with not one, but two fucking relapses. 17 days. I had no idea it was possible for such a thing to last so long. Anyway, if I’m not grinning, you’ll understand.

65 and sick

Despite feeling weak and unwell, it was a far better day than I’d expected, for several reasons. One I can’t talk about, yet—let’s just say I love my IP and Entertainment lawyer :) Another is that for the first time in 17 days, I woke up feeling…hungry. Which made me practically giddy with delight. So delighted that Charlie felt the need to sit upon me and keep me earthbound.

Kitty anchor

We were both in the living room staring out of the window at the rain (it’s been raining without cease for days here—welcome to autumn in Seattle), me daydreaming of the things I can’t talk about, and Charlie being cross about everything being so wet, when zam! Out comes the sun, and the sky, which has been a grey lid since Friday, turned wall-to-wall blue.

For the first time in two weeks, I was determined to venture outdoors.

On the deck, a fair amount had changed: a lot of annuals like the prim little petunias had managed to get themselves Raptured from existence, but the happy heathen begonias were glistening with the recent rain and beaming bright. Just looking at them makes me feel glad. And everything smelt like the dawn of the world.

Heathen begonias refuse the Rapture

Charlie, of course, escorted me every step of the way—he gets anxious when the wimmins leave the safety of their enclosure, especially when he has no back up from the International Cat of Mystery (currently absent on his Mysterious Business)—so his mission was protection and surveillance as I surveyed my demesne.

Kitten on a mission

The front of the house is looking a bit shaggy. The fuchsias have done well, and a strange viney flower—no idea what it is but it looks like the unnatural offspring of a flowering pea and a nasturtium—and of course the honeysuckle and flowering (ha, I’ll come back to that) vines we planted five or six years ago were luscious and full and twining around everything—finally framing the porch the way I’d got the roses to frame it six years ago, before we had the house painted. But just not, y’know, flowering. Six years we’ve been waiting for those vines to flower. Six years. Without a single blossom. I had honestly started to give up hope.

Framing with flowering (not) vines

And then today, my birthday, lo! One single cluster of trumpet blossom right at the tip of a long, snaking vine right at the left edge of the house—so far left that it’s off screen on the right of the above. But here it is, close up.

Harbinger of the future flame

Can you imagine next summer, when that mass of green framing the front of the house turns into a cascade of flame orange and salmon pink? I can, and I’m eager to see it.

By this point, though, Charlie was beside himself with stress. Frazzled with being on point. Trying to herd me back into the house.

Kitten on point

So I obediently—I was tired by this point (hey, you try 17 days of gastroenteritis and see how lively you feel)—followed him back up the ramp to admire the pots on the kitchen deck, and then eventually go back inside.

(This one taken a few days ago)

So a day that had promised only wet, cold weather and miserable health turned out full of small, unexpected pleasures. Besides, we still have all the caviar, champagne, and truffles we’d bought to celebrate both our Big Birthdays (before that plan got destroyed by the Vile Virus) just waiting for our enjoyment. I’m looking forward to an autumn of colour, warmth, and indulgence. I wish the same for you.

Meanwhile, anyone read any good books lately? I’m tired of watching TV and for a few days more I won’t be up to doing much… Give me a recommendation!