Bad case of the birthday blues

Ahh, the 12^th August, it’s that time of year again, namely my birthday, known to some as the Glorious 12^th. Alas not known thus for being my birthday (contrary to my childhood assumptions) but instead for the opening of the grouse shooting season. Though to be fair, I have my doubts… I mean, it’s not that glorious for the poor grouse as they get shot out of the sky, undergrowth, or wherever it is the wee sods try to hide every year as summer rolls round & the toffs get out their shotguns. But hey ho, I’ve digressed already and it’s only the first paragraph.

Happy birthday me

So yes, the 12^th, and this year in all of its ingloriousness I was definitely with the grouse. I’m pleased to say that despite an absence of Scottish landowners chasing me round my house with some of the finest firearms in the glens, this birthday was distinctly sucky. Now, I’m not by nature that much of a maudlin person, I’m usually quite chipper on the whole, so I don’t want you to read this as a self-pitying blog heralding a headlong slide into depression as my body and mind decline immeasurably on their annual depreciation of value. But it must be said, this year was not a good one. There’s been a lot of change in my life over the last 18 months, primarily work wise as I switch to a new career and all of that which comes with it (primarily a lack of cash), so when my birthday came around, having got back on my feet and rolled with all the punches of recent times, I was ready to celebrate. However, like most Big Occasions, it was overhyped (or at least minorly hyped, gotta keep these things in some kind of perspective), and I was let down worse than worse than a 10 year old girl at an episode of Jim’ll Fix It.

I mean it wasn’t all bad, but certainly several factors combined to provide a meteor storm of ‘waaahs’ from Sophington Towers, namely:

1.       A  unfortunate  & unexpected series of no shows at my birthday drinks, & me sat with just 1 mate for 2 hours, at a pub table reserved for 15 until my trusty comrades in booze turned up – not so much billy no mates as billy one mate for a while (& to my mates that made it, especially the one that stuck by throughout, I am ETERNALLY grateful)

2.       A row with my dad following a long standing family difficulty

3.       My new colleagues at work only remembering my birthday at about 2pm (in their defence I am relatively new, and rather were very few of us in the office, thus heaping unfair pressure on 1 or 2 people to remember)

     And I think this one is the most crucial to the ‘waah’ inducing

4.  My one PMT day of the month which made me blub like a baby at all of the above. Lets be honest, it was mostly this really.

Not sure which one is Spanky
& which one is Dickie,
but not sure it makes a difference 

Now, after doing a quick google, it turns out that this previously unknown (to me) ‘condition’ is pretty common. It’s the birthday blues, and if you won’t blow me down with a feather, I’ve never had it before. Interesting side note, The Birthday Blues is also a 1932 film featuring 2 characters called Spanky & Dickie, and if that’s not reason to smile, I don’t know what is. But I digress… again. But apparently the birthday blues are a genuine thing, certainly according to a recent scientific study which suggested that men are prone to committing suicide on or around their birthday (certainly statistically more prone than women). And furthermore, birthdays are pretty dangerous as a whole, as out of the study of 2 million people, it emerged that people are 14 per cent more likely to die on their birthday. Woohoo to that, someone get out the candles! The study didn’t mention cause, and whether it’s the stress of organising birthday parties, or the inevitable consumption of a large amount of alcohol at such events that has such an impact, but certainly it appears that the annual birthday rumble makes for pretty dangerous times!

So perhaps I should be grateful, I mean, my mates DID turn up, my Dad and I DID make up (& he was suitably chastised), my colleagues DID realise their error, subsequently loading me up with chocolate, tart and cava in an effort to make good (they succeeded), and my mum and I had a lovely meal where I introduced her to the joys of hibiscus margaritas. So not all was bad. And furthermore, contrary to the above mentioned study I DIDN’T DIE! And surely that’s got to be a good, and dare I say, a pretty glorious thing. So this week I’m chipper. I’m celebrating the fact I’ve turned one year older, and my mortail coil still remains very firmly attached, wherever it might be. Unfortunately, I’m not sure the same can be said for the grouse.

Duck & cover grousey!