This should be a post where I write of cake and balloons and everyone toasting..
But it's not.
Paul is still battling with surgery recovery.
I went to see Erasure last night with my best mates (Scottish Sarah flew down) and for some reason (after waaay too much vino with pals on an empty stomach) I had a go at Paul. I have absolutely no memory of this, and am utterly mortified and stupified as to why I was such a nutjob..?? He is the LAST person I should be upset with..?!
When you're in your 20s it's easy to have drunken dramatic rows but those haven't happened for YEARS. We rarely ever fight.
He is upset with me, understandably, and now I'm dragging him to a birthday lunch in Battersea Power Station. I'm convinced he hates me and all I can do is apologise profusely, but the afternoon is thankfully a success. Neither of us is drinking, but our friends sparkle.. and cheer.. and a wonderful old mate Dominic makes a fabulous appearance.
I definitely need counselling. I think I'm angry with the world and resentful that my husband has this.
But most of all I'm scared.
So why take it out on him?? I have no idea.
On his actual birthday on Sunday Cam and I decorated the house with banners and balloons and sang and danced along idiotically to Lionel Ritchie's "Happy Birthday"
I gathered some old mates of his for another lunch.
Great fun after a dash for some Gabapentin (nerve ending pain relief) for Paul.
We come home afterwards and watched Paddington 1 on the telly and ate nachos.
I know I'm forgiven because he's an amazing human being but I haven't forgiven myself. I've already contacted a counsellor.
I'm such a prat.