Sunday was my fortieth birthday. I am now officially an elder statesman, looking down my bifocals with a patrician squint.
We ate Freddo Frog ice cream cake for breakfast.
Alongside a bunch of schmick new clothes--not pictured--I was given a handsome Marseilles blue Le Creuset frying pan, from Ruth. There will be eggs (for Ruth).
There was also an Oliver Queen figurine from Nikos: currently loading an arrow in front of David Hume (who might take issue with Queen's ideas of necessity). And a Wonder Woman t-shirt from Sophia, which I'll wear to my Melbourne Writers Festival Batman talk on Saturday.
Nikos and Sophia also designed and made prints for me, by carving shapes into rubber. These now decorate the negative space above my writing desk.
On Sunday we tripped off to the city, dropped into Eisner-winning All-Star Comics, feasted like Olympians at the ACMI cafe and bar at Federation Square, and enjoyed ludicrously good (hipster) ice cream at N2 Extreme. IT CAME WITH A SYRINGE OF SALTED CARAMEL.
And almost in time for my birthday, the Dutch edition of How to Think About Exercise was released, which I'll highlight soon.
I'll close with Ernest Hemingway, on the day of his fortieth birthday, writing to his mother:
Well here it is my birthday. It seems, somehow, of very little importance. If I can write a good novel that will be much more. Well I have to write a good one. And I will. But some days the going is tough. Today for instance. (21/7/39)As the kids say: this.