This week was my Birthday week.
As I’ve got older, I’ve realised that a one day celebration just isn’t enough. Over the years, I would have looked forward to a gin & tonic, followed by a gourmet meal, a few glasses of Shiraz, a snifter of Cointreau and an early night, but now that’s pretty much a weekly, if not daily occurrence. So John has to be more creative than ever to impress. He often reminds that when I asked for flowers, he bought me a flower shop!
That should be enough for all future birthdays, but I say…
Be careful what you wish for!
These days, getting into my PJs at 6.30pm or breakfast in bed, is all I dream of.
But NO, John thought it was about time I left the village and went on a big night out. At first I thought…
Oh no, really? Do I have to?!!!
But what I didn’t know was that John is in fact a Timelord and was able to whisk me and my best friend Paula back to 1979, when we spent hours as teenagers, listening to Genesis in Paula’s bedroom. We didn’t actually go back to Paula’s bedroom but instead drove us to the bright lights of Brighton to see ‘The Musical Box’ a Genesis Tribute band playing at the The Theatre Royal.
Oh my, what a fantastic night!!!!!
Leaving the village was an effort in itself. I rarely take off my Flowershop apron, I wear it pretty much all of the time, it’s become part of me and I carry everything dear to me around in that front pouch. But off it came and and out came the DENIM jacket!!!!
Brighton was like London, the lights, the noise, the people, the cars all felt strangely exciting after the odd night out at Pulborough Village Cinema.
The lobby area was crammed with middle-aged rockers in faded denim and wide-fitting shoes. We picked up our tickets and gazed up at the steep staircase leading to our seats, looking to see if a Stannah lift had been fitted. Unfortunately one hadn’t and I wasn’t the only one who had to stop for a breather, more than once, before finally reaching the terrifying ledge on which our seats were perched.
When the music started, I was seventeen again and it was only the fear of toppling over the thigh high balcony and into the stands below, that prevented me from jumping around like a lunatic. Instead I sat still and couldn’t help but smile as the spotlights zigzagged across the auditorium, catching the reflection of a thousand bald heads, bobbing up and down in time with the music.
Exhausted and drunk on nostalgia, we headed home, back to our little village. I breathed a deep sigh as we passed into West Sussex, off the main road and away from the bright lights. It was well after midnight when I fell into bed, thinking only of the little time I had to sleep before Luigi would be at the shop with an early delivery of flower.
Next year, a bouquet of flowers, that I didn’t have to create and a lie in on a Saturday is all I want.
Life as a village florist 