I’m a summer baby and I was asked this the other day, so I said “nothing” (as you do).
What I want for my birthday is time. I want more time. I want to lie around on a hilltop with a friend and a bottle of wine and think about nothing. I want to wake up in the morning and just sort of kick the duvet about a bit, make it rustle, drink bitter hot chocolate and eat warm, springy-fresh croissants. Sprawl on my face some.
I want to teach my kids more of what I know. I want to actually remember the stuff that I dreamed of teaching them. Not the bit about not swearing, the better stuff. What was it? Probably something about living in the moment, relaxing and being yourself, the things I fail at.
I want to sunbathe. Hell, I want to sunbathe and feel my skin tingle.
I want to write my book.
I want to cook meats in honey and vegetables in chilli (and plain wild rice), and eat them with the friend from the hilltop, with our feet up, and our shoulders pressed together. They can read me pretentious verse until we both laugh, kick each other’s legs, tell each other life stories instead. Around a fire. I want smoke. Night. I want midnight to come as a witching hour instead of an Outlook reminder. I want my own cauldron.
I want stupid things for my birthday. Massages. Sweaty runs. Hugs. Doom Bar.
OK, I have some Doom Bar. I’ll hang out with the kids and wait for some wisdom, or dinner, whichever comes. I can write a bit each day, see how that goes. I can probably swing some hugs.
That’d do, actually. That’ll do fine.