Me at 34

The sun has come out for the first time since we arrived in Berlin; I'm modelling my new boots and would be showing off a skirt considerably shorter than my knees, a first since being an undergrad, had the photo been taken 2 seconds later. I've recently invested in anti-aging cream and am wondering if I should start wearing makeup.

We've no idea where we'll be next year or what we'll be doing. Neither of us has a job, or prospect of one, and settling anywhere seems grey and dull. Today, however, was perfect, and the contemplation of this year continues to be techni-coloured. On take-two of the birthday, Ul's skills in spoiling suggest that drought years may have been more to do with Congo than romantic inability (à suivre. . .).

There are croissants for breakfast and opera tickets nestling under my plate - I nearly threw them out as a more probable parking coupon left behind. A red rose, Champagne and smoked salmon for lunch, and a posh French restaurant for supper, where we gorge on Raclette and vow never to eat it again. I spend the latter part of the meal gazing in fascinated awe at Ul's cheese consumption.

We go to a small collection from the Guggenheim. A Picasso, Cezanne, van Gough, Monet, Modigliani and Degas figures greet you at the door. You then progresses without explanation through to the 1940s and suddenly you're looking at blocks of colours and a few lines. I'm very Daily Mail-esque about it: Art should be accessible and if not accessible at least pleasing on the eye. . . (Then again, I seem to remember that Daily Mail readers regularly vote James Joyce's Ulysses as one of their all-time top reads, so perhaps not). Anything after 1913, a colourful splurge of Kandinsky and that Chagall picture of the horse leaping into a magical sky as the house burns, seems a little too avant-garde. Which clearly is the idea, but not much point being clever if no one understands you.

It was a lovely day. We are incredibly lucky and spoilt right now.