Yesterday I had the perfect day, you can see that I did, because, please note the 'O' as in 'O Perfect Day' is without an 'aitch', because somehow once an aitch intrudes 'O' turns to something else. It becomes an 'oh' as in 'oh dear' or 'oh gracious' or even on a really bad day, an 'oh woe is me how I am undone....' kind of day.
Yesterday there was not an aitch in sight, they had all fled and hidden themselves in giant incinerators, scattered far and wide in places of ugliness where no birds sing.
Yesterday began with pale tea served to me in bed in a blue and white cup, roses in a blue jug placed beside me, and sunshine outside the window shutters lighting the climbing roses, clinging and gliding through the old apple tree, and the thousand year old yews.
Yesterday I opened the bedroom door and there was music, summoned from nowhere, and it being my birthday, it was Wagner's Siegfried Idyll filling the air with its beauty, because my Master of Ceremonies, Mr Magic himself, thought it would be quite the thing for me to stand listening to something sublime written by a genius for his own wife's birthday, and lo, not woe, there were happy tears, and still the sun shone..
Yesterday I went downstairs and the room was filled with roses, and there were specially made cards with specially romantic messages, cards made up of photographsof myself beginning with babyhood and going through every phase of my life. There were cards written from children and grandchildren and friends, and dogs and horses. There were balloons with messages and festoons with more messages, and a photograph of our daughter and son in law, and Oscar winner Jeremy Irons on the red carpet at Cannes, just before Candy's film received a standing ovation. And another of our son receiving the same at a gala starring his Covent Garden Dance Company. And they both rang and e-mailed joyous news from NYC and other places where they are working, and jazz played on the i player, and we danced to celebrate their good fortune.
Yesterday I was driven to the seaside and the sun shone on the water outside my favourite restaurant, and the sea sparkled, and there was fully enough blue sky to make trousers for not one sailor, but a whole navy of them, and we drank champagne, and wondered at the luck of it all.
Yesterday I was driven home to mountains of presents, and a painting was uneveiled by my favourite painter - one Terence Brady. THE STRAW HAT is of a young woman in eighteenth century clothes, the hat tied with black velvet ribbons perched on the back of her beautiful head. She wears a white lace blouse with large folds, a dark blue jerkin, and a vastly folded red skirt, and her serene eyes look out at you saying 'aren't I beautiful?' to which the world must answer 'O yes, indeed you are, O yes!' And she is beautiful, and so is the painting, and I say things like 'how DID you get the folds in the skirt?' which people always say to painters, which make them smile and feel justly proud.
Yesterday arrived an oak tree, now planted in front of the house and it has a brass plaque to commemorate my perfect day, my O of a birthday; and when I look out of my window I can wave to it, and just at this moment it is waving back to me saying 'I shall always be here - and remember 'O' is also for Oak!.