All grown up with somewhere to go

The one day in the year we spend without the kids is, traditionally, my birthday. And since it falls, this year, on a very uncelebratory Monday – and my workplace is kind enough to give staff a freebie annual day off, I spent today – much as the Queen does – having my official birthday. Except that hers probably doesn’t end when the kids get home from school. Oh well. 

But it didn’t get off to a great start – last night,  knowing I had a rare morning off, I had a gin or three with colleagues after work, followed by cocktails at the Four Sisters – a quirky and chic little cocktail bar in the heart of the city, located at the tail end of Bow Lane, a bustling Potter-esque alley where brokers and barrow boys still make deals and drown their sorrows.  On mentioning said birthday, the charming hote de table found us a seat in the reserved area, brought us complimentary shots, and made me feel  generally fabulous as I supped hard liquor amid the gorgeous decor, which included sumptuously grotesque (and heinously expensive) wallpaper by House of Hackney (of whose Dutch masters-inspired gothic Midnight Garden Tom indulgently brought me two rolls of in their Black Friday sale.) 

 This terribly grown up birthday present, along with some Jo Malone bath oil to go in our newly re-tiled bathroom is perhaps testament to my age and the fact I’m far more interested these days in furnishings than fashion. As is the fact that I’m fussy enough to reject Tom’s shop assistant- persuaded choice of ‘English Pear and Freesia’, the name of which I found slightly insulting for its fleshly connotations and old lady top notes, not to mention it’s too sweet scent – and make him swap it with the rather more elegant French Lime about which I’d dropped not-so-subtle pre- Christmas hints. Well, it’s my birthday, so I’ll be a diva if I want to.

There’re two good things about turning 36 – or officially over the hill, as I like to term it – these are: knowing exactly what you want and where to get it, and being able to hold your drink. And hold it I did- all three gins, three vodkas and a white rum. What’s not so good about getting older is the aforementioned combination’s ability to rob one of sleep. So I spent an unsettled night generally annoying my other half, and woke up grumpy that our precious day off together would be spoilt.

Luckily, the most taxing thing we had to do was to arrive at a massage joint – we’d booked Sumanat, off Brick Lane on Fashion Street, where we were greeted by smiling Thai ladies who, I have to say, worked wonders on a back that has been seizing up for much of the last decade. We had the couple’s room- the unprepossesing decor, and gulf between our tables more than made up for by the intuitive knack of the lady soothing my aches and pains – with a little good old fashioned pain to go with. I slightly fell in love with her. I certainly wanted to take her home and make her be my mum. Even when she had me slightly in tears. And for £39, it was the best value – in fact BEST EVER massage I’ve ever had in the UK, where you can normally expect to pay around a pound a minute – and compared to last year’s abysmal experience at East London’s Affordable Day Spa, it was absolutely worth every penny.

We chose a place near Spitalfields Market (and Brick Lane) as these are my favourite places for mooching, but with residual tiredness creeping and raging hangover hunger, (my head was fine, thanks, white spirits) I didn’t feel much like browsing, for all there were lots of lovely things to waste money on- our ongoing holiday-let purchase meaning my head’s more on robust and long lasting furnishings, for once, than knick-knacks).

We hadn’t booked for lunch, there being plentiful restaurants in the area. Tom wanted to try The Holy Birds, a 60s themed chicken shop. But, not terribly in the mood for poultry, and since the sun was shining, we found a spot that still gets light in winter amid the City’s encroaching skyline at Galvin Hop -the cheaper offshoot of a rather posh eaterie Galvin La Chapelle where rotund city boys washed steak tartare down with a fine Chateau Lafite). Here, we followed up our back uncrunching with some ill-advised gluten, and tended our fragile moods with hotdog and burger, with some unpasteurised beer to wash it down, while I pondered the process to becoming important enough to be taken out for dinner somewhere like that on a work basis, and decided it probably started before birth, and as such it was very unlikely to happen to me, given, age 36, my lowly workplace seniority and shocking networking skills.

In any case, both Tom and I were done for on carby goodness  – my hotdog was preceded by lovely crusty bread, and only ameliorated by the presence of a significant helping of Sauerkraut and a smattering of watercress, alongside beautifully thin, crisp fries served with  mini milk churn of mayo. Divine.

We managed to walk it off up Brick Lane, where, in for a penny, in for £2.50 a pop, we decided to take pick up Crosstown designer doughnuts as a Friday night treat for the kiddies. This meant I felt I could sack off pick up and indulge in a guilt-free  nap while Tom sorted school. Thus rested, I could  welcome the kids home in a rather less grumpy mood, and snack them up in time for Cubs, which Ava has just moved up to – and which means I get most of Friday evening to myself, too. There are definite benefits to getting older. And for everything else, I just dermaroll.