a little early celebration...

As Easter day happens to fall on my birthday this year, and in the UK Easter = four-day bank holiday weekend, and that means lots of people away, we went for birthday drinks last night at The Social.

These are about the most coherent photos of the night... all downhill from the nachos and champagne onwards (via some cocktails and too many shooters)...

birthday time

Birthdays stress me out. I hate having to organise something. One year I tried just not organising anything, not doing anything for it, and to be honest, that was even more miserable. But I hate the pressure of having to have a good time - it's like New Years in that respect. And then there's the weirdness of all my separate friendship groups (high school, uni, london) colliding.

So this year I decided to drag everyone to West London, to Crazy Homies for mexican food and margaritas. I'm a huge mexican food fan (they need to open Taco Bell over here...) and hell, the name of the restaurant alone was enough to convince me that was where to go.

So after a week of back and forth emailing, sending out streetmaps, telling people what time the table was booked for, various people dropping out or not responding, Thursday night (night before the birthday), we invade the restaurant. And more people turn up that I'm expecting (makes me feel popular for a change) so we all cram around a table and order pomegranate margaritas and burritos and more pomegranate margaritas, until the waiter brings out a birthday cake (Marks & Spencer's finest caterpillar cake, in case you were wondering) that my sister had dropped off earlier, much to my horrendous embarrassment. I genuinely had no idea, nor noticed him carrying it until he was behind me and everyone - and I mean everyone in the basement of the restaurant, not just my party - started singing. I'm fairly certain I turned bright red. And went even redder when the waiter then started a round of hip hip hurrahs. Oh boy.

The East Londoners had to leave a little early, we stayed on a little longer until the table next to us got up and started pole dancing. I wish I was joking.

I got home a little before midnight, waited till it turned 12 and opened what I'd been given at the restaurant. The child in me could wait no longer. I have lovely friends, I'd just like to say. An awesome mix CD (this is one of my favourite things to give and receive ever. As long as they're personal. Not like my sister last year, when I was living in NY, who sent me one for my bday that she then told me was actually just a copy of one the boy she was seeing had for her. Loser), a Dick & Jane Yiddish book (lol), Rough Trade compilation, a beautiful bracelet, and a "Dog TV" from Mark - a little television that you look through the back of, click a button and see eight different photos of dogs. Remember those kind of toys? Brilliant. And the closest to the puppy I actually wanted for my birthday that I'm ever gonna come.

Although I have to say (and I know I'm going to sound lame saying it, but...) the coolest present was a totally unintentional one from my six and a half month old godson, who waved - for the first time ever, and at me - right before his mamma and I left to head to the restaurant. He did it three times in a row, it was no accidental hand gesture. It was so awesome.

The next morning getting up supremely early and then spending an hour and a half on rocky seas crossing the Channel heading to France wasn't so awesome after all those margaritas though. I can tell you that for nothing.

birthday antics

My dad's birthday. Just before we sit down for dinner, I'm on a bidness call with Jackie. The conversation turns to Interpol. The third partner in Crash & Boom, Carmen, has been in NY this past week, hanging with Paul and Carlos, who are her bros. Business and chat is concluded, I return my attention to the family dinner.

My dad looks at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and worry.

"So has Jackie been talking to Interpol, or were they talking to you?"

Wow, I think, my dad is more with it that I thought. I had no idea he'd know who Interpol were.

"No, Carmen knows them, she-"

But suddenly, as his face is swept with relief I realise - he's on a completely different track.

"Ohhhh. The band. Not the police."

And suddenly he's back to being the guy for whom Art Brut is merely an artistic movement and Band of Horses is something he'd see in a Western. And who, on occasion, has mistaken my ipod for a cell phone. Old dog, new tricks...

Happy birfday, papa x