Yearly Ritual

I have a ritual on mornings like this. I wake up with a level of excitement, take a deep breath to steady myself, get up and walk calmly to the window.

I throw open the curtains, don’t worry I don’t ALWAYS sleep naked so the chances of my dangling bits being on show are minimal, and as my my pupils dilate as they adjust to the sudden change of light, I peer out into the street below.

Typically there isn’t much going on. I might see our cat heading off for another adventure, or the local squirrel foraging for the last nuts of the year (remember I’m usually clothed, and anyway he isn’t allowed into the house), or perhaps one of the neighbours is out walking their dog. Basically take your own suburban scenario, the run of the mill morning activities of fetching in the milk, or going to buy a paper, that is what is playing outside of my window. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing different, nothing new.

This ritual of mine only occurs on two days of the year, and I’ve long past the point where I’m surprised by what I see.

The simple fact is that I enjoy this silly little ritual, for most rituals are silly, aren’t they, when you step back from them they are a series of utterly pointless actions but, as a whole they recognise that the entire point of the ritual is important to you (which also allows for the rituals to be based around silly and pointless things themselves). This applies to the ‘superstitious’ sportswomen who must always put on her left sock before her right, or the businessman pausing to inhale his coffee before taking that first sip of the morning. Both are ritualistic and in their own way rather silly, but to the person who has initiated the ritual they are important and have far deeper a meaning than is obvious to the observer.

I mention all of this as a way to deflect from the true nature of what I was going to say, in short, I digress.

This very morning I followed the same pattern as I always do on this day of the year. I woke up and, upon realising the day, I smiled to myself and levered myself into a sitting position. I took a deep breath and got up. I walked slowly and calmly to the window, reached up and took hold of the curtains. Another deep breath was taken and as my lungs reached maximum capacity (this is an important detail of this ritual), I flung the curtains open, and looked down and out into the street.

And, once more, for the 36th year running, THERE WAS NO FUCKING FERRARI SITTING IN THE DRIVE!!!

I exhaled noisily and go back bed.

Happy fuckin birthday to me.

Written By

Long time blogger, Father of Jack, geek of many things, random photographer and writer of nonsense.

Doing my best to find a balance.

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Happy fucking birthday, dear Gordon.

NKV says:

Maaaaybe…the nice spanking new car was nicked from your drive before you got up. I’d report it as theft.

But *why* do you want a Ferrari dear Gordon?

Hope you had a good day.

Cheers all.

BW – because I like to dream.

A dream would be a Ferrari? Oh dear ๐Ÿ˜‰

Tom has a somewhat dented Matchbox Ferrari which he might “donate” to you in exchange for a few pounds of good quality chocolate buttons. Will that do? And happy birthday too (belatedly).

little sis says:

Don’t think my game vouchers will stretch to the Ferrari sorry!! Always next year… if I meet a millionaire!!!

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