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Well, that term started out years ago as “Birthday Slut”, but I changed it to reflect the obeisance owed The Haver of The Birthday. G’ahead… try it out… be relentlessly self-promoting, imperious and demanding on your birthday. Insist on adoration and acquiescence to all your wishes. It’s a grand feeling. And here’s a little known secret: the older you get, the longer you can milk it. I’m 43 and am having a Birthday Week. By the time I’m 80, it’ll be a month.

I had a perfect birthday. Just perfect. The weather was lovely (which in Danish means you’ve been a good girl/boy the previous year – ah, the ways we impart a sense of responsibility in our children… “be good or the entire country will suffer!”), had lovely birthday wishes with English, Danish and Mexican birthday songs, plus a phonetic version of the Danish that should be made available to the public, and in general, was made a complete fuss of.

In the afternoon, friends and I spent time at Buskerfest. We were lucky to see the only woman in the world who’s ever successfully juggled 5 porcupines and a tennis racket while standing on the back of a giant turtle.

Which is utter crap from the recesses of my fevered imagination, but given my view, it’s as likely as anything else.

Other moments:

After the friends departed, I went to the park and had a moment of perfect happiness:

In the evening, a lovely dinner out and when it was all over and because I was in the mood for something elegant and madcap, I watched The Philadelphia Story. Nice way to end the day.