Let’s do this together

My mobile phone started buzzing on Saturday morning – my 53rd birthday.

Among the good wishes from friends, was one from my daughter.

“How much do I have in my savings account?” she messaged tersely, already up and about and keen to get to the shops.

“Do you mean, ‘Happy birthday, Mummy’?” I replied with as much sarcasm as my phone could manage.

I could feel her rolling her eyes. “Happy birthday, Mummy. How much do I have in my account?”

I gave up and let her go – my Scottish granny would have said the money was burning a hole in her pocket. And indeed all The Dark Lord had to show for her months of savings was a pile of rocks by the end of her shopping trip.

“They’re healing crystals not rocks or pebbles,” the teenager corrected me, then outrageously tried to convince me to give her more money so she could get me a birthday present.

“I’ll take it in crystals then – my head could do with a lot of healing this morning,” I moaned, getting up and starting my 54th year with a cracking whiskey hangover.

We were in Edinburgh for my birthday weekend, so I didn’t expect any cards or presents but I had peaked a bit early in the excitement of catching up with our old friends on Friday night.

After a gruesome-sounding Scottish fry-up of dried blood (black pudding) and sheep’s stomach (haggis) and a Bloody Mary, I was feeling human enough for a wander around the magnificent city.

The Jubilee celebrations seemed a bit muted – even for the Scots, but that didn’t stop the pipers who were out in force for the trapped tourists.

On the train home on Sunday, the Flying Scotsman was more like the Standing Yorkshireman. The slow service stopped at places I didn’t even know existed and was packed to the gunnels with hungover hen and stag parties from Newcastle.

Although they must have been for second marriages as the conversation among some of the “hens” was kitchen worktops and leaving tissues in a hot wash.

I wished I had tissues to stick in my ears – remind me never to get married again.

When we finally walked through the front door, I was looking forward to some birthday cards. But there was nothing on the mat – I’d completely forgotten it was a bank holiday weekend.

“Right, that’s it,” I grumbled, banging my house keys down on the side board, “I’m not counting this year until I get some cards.”

■ Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.

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Yours, Siobhan