Birthday treats

What a contrast. We went to Compton Verney today, as we also did on my birthday two years ago, when I took one of my favourite ever photos of the lake. Today it was sunny, the temperature was +7 rather than -7°C, and I struggled to find a view that I really liked. For extra context, the tree trunk on the left of this image belongs to the big cedar tree towards the left of the earlier snowy view.

After we'd attended the annual Birmingham Conservatoire Chamber Choir Christmas concert in Compton Verney Chapel - which was fine, but not as special as it used to be, back in the days before every other piece became a traditional carol with audience participation - we went into Stratford for whatever the lunch/dinner equivalent is of brunch. The ten-mile journey was a complete nightmare, with crawling nose-to-tail traffic, and in the end we gave in and allowed the satnav to take us on a hair-raising cross-country drive along single track roads, to work our way around the gridlock - which another motorist in the synchronised 3-point turn routine told us was caused by a car fire. At this point I felt a little guilty for all the complaining I'd been doing for the previous twenty minutes: clearly, someone else's afternoon was going far more badly than mine.

By the time we reached Vintner I was well beyond the point of sweet reasonableness, but an excellent meal put me right again, and we returned home well pleased with our day. As we were driving back L called, and after wishing me a happy birthday she put the Boy Wonder on the phone. The conversation in the background went something like, "Do you want to come and say happy birthday to Grandma?" "It's not Grandma's birthday though - it's your birthday." "It was my birthday a few days ago, wasn't it? But now it's Grandma's birthday. Do you want to sing happy birthday to her?" By this point I was on tenterhooks, half expecting a negative response, but the Boy stepped up magnificently. As soon as he came on the phone he began singing "Happy birthday to you", lustily, in Welsh, and at the end he gave me a rousing four cheers. Which was the first time I've been wished a happy birthday in Welsh, and also the first time I've ever received that many cheers.

This evening, over a bottle of fizz, we took advantage of the free 3 months of Apple TV we were gifted the other day when we both upgraded our phones, and began watching the first series of Slow Horses. Now, I love Mick Herron's books. I mean - really love them. They occupy the same mental space for me as Jane Austen's novels: I can read them anywhere, at any time, and they will always improve my life. This makes me a tough audience for a TV adaptation, obviously, and despite the glowing crits I was braced to hate this series. But - with the one significant caveat that Gary Oldman is not Jackson Lamb, and never will be because his voice is too high and he simply doesn't have enough heft - I have to say that it's pretty darned good, and the two episodes we watched rounded off my birthday very nicely indeed.