Poisson D’Avril

It’s my birthday. I’m not a day over thirty, in my head anyway. For I believe that I’m a sweet young thing who can still get away with wearing short skirts. If you know me personally and think that there’s anything that I’m doing that suggests that I’m veering towards mutton dressed as lamb tendencies, please let me know.

The  fact that I share the day that I emerged into this world with ‘April Fools Day’ might explain some of my ingrained battiness. In the past I’ve asked people to guess my birthday and they’ve got it straight away. Strange things happen on this day of the year. You have to keep your wits about you. I have opened a birthday gift and discovered a pile of banana skins in the past. Of course everyone knows that it’s the day that Italians harvest spaghetti. It’s also the day when the French inexplicably pin fishes on each other’s back, hence the name of today’s post. Poisson D’Avril is the French equivalent of April Fool’s Day.

Poisson D’Avril is not a day I make a big fuss about anymore. In recent years I woke up and forgot that it was my birthday until mid morning. There’s a wee bit more of a sense of occasion this time around but not much more. My son Louis has been staying at his dad’s as it’s an easier commute to his current job. He’s coming home tomorrow and we’re having a low key meal out. And in spite of no present buying agreements aplenty a few nice things have come my way already. My favourite has to be the fluffy Saltrock poncho to keep me cosy after my swims. Less posh than a Dryrobe but it does the trick. It arrived early and I can already vouch for the fact that it’s toastie warm.

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