The grand old age of 93 is my best yet

ThIS year, on a balmy June evening, I was on a boat with my son and daughter-in-law on the river vltava in Prague. We sat at a table spread with a white cloth, set with gleaming cutlery, sparkling glasses and pleated napkins. A lady played piano, but I did not recognise any of the gentle tunes. My son handed me an envelope. In it was a card embossed with roses and greetings printed in Czech. My son asked the waiter to translate the words. he took the card, stood looking at me as if addressing an audience, and read — in his own language — then with such feeling in english, the wishes for a happy birthday and future healthy, happy years. I couldn’t stop tears welling up. We glided past the city’s ancient castles and palaces, towers and spirals pushing into the sky. daylight faded, night fell. In between courses we had time to enjoy the vista. At a wider part of the river, the boat circled several times allowing time for photographs to be taken of the buildings now lit up, silhouetted against the backcloth of a darkening sky, throwing reflections onto the water. A magnificent sight. The waiter topped up our glasses. We passed under the Charles Bridge. We’d walked over it during the day. dessert was placed in front of me. My son produced a candle, stuck it in my dish and lit it. I made a wish and blew. every time I blew it out, it lit up again. We laughed. My son snuffed the candle, then went and spoke to the pianist. She hit the keys. People dining at other tables joined in and sang ‘happy Birthday To You’. I stood and thanked them. everyone clapped and raised their glasses in celebration of my 93rd birthday.

Sylvia rowley, Manchester.