Hangovers and heatwaves shouldn't mix. Oof. No one parties on a Wednesday, unless you're me.

Last night, for my 46th birthday, we attended a string quartet concert at the local arts centre, a wonderfully intimate venue that is a perk of small town life. Afterwards we piled into the darkest corner of a pub, chatting about god knows what until late, late, late. There were presents: a money plant, a lemongrass and cedarwood scented candle, a bottle of night-harvested Spanish olive oil. Necessities, obvs. (The husband gave me a Lotto ticket.)

The next morning Anna and I lurched into the castle cafe garden, where we conversed about her art research over almond croissants and coffee. Frayed bunting rustled. Clouds of red admirals undulated above the fuzzy mauve heads of holy rope. In the adjacent field, three blond cows lay in the shade of two massive horse chestnuts. "My favorite trees in town," said Anna. "Mine, too."

I hadn't celebrated my birthday like this since my father died. Instead I'd brace myself, wondering what disaster might befall. Now I tell myself to breathe, to sit with my feelings, to let them pass. I take the rest of the afternoon off, to watch drifting clouds and let myself daydream, in a pool of changeable light.

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