I was born in the '60s.

Sally's eighteenth birthday party began yesterday on the Lincoln train, as I spread out my sewing kit and attempted to make a hippie dress out of a ripped up playsuit and is winding down slowly as I type, with a big plate of sausages and bacon and My Girl. In between there were Beatnik costumes by Primark, champagne toasts in the hotel room, hair bands and wristbands, double measures on the tab, hippies and Elvi (the plural of Elvis?) and bright geometric swirls, squished Sally cakes, finger moustaches, Austin Powers dances, brotherly disgust, solitary taxi rides (plus lots of derogatory drunk comments and CPR advice), five-way spooning, 3 a.m. munchies, pillow fights and surreal conversations with Harry as he tried very hard not to fall asleep. "'We need to wash the robots' 'When we came out of the pyramid.'" Ha. The damage this morning = mysterious blood spots on the flagstones, drink spills on my new shoes, empty bottles in the sink and pizza crusts in the garden. Plus I'm not anticipating that the four-train train journey will be a whole lot of fun later today, but I am looking forward to seeing my mum tonight. Peace out.