Does This Mean I'm Not Really 30 Yet?

Well, in general it may have been a lovely birthday (apart of course from getting up at the crack of dawn and going to french and the fact that it was about 10 degrees and so forth), but it all fell apart a bit in the evening when we walked to the restaurant where we were planning to have my delicious birthday dinner (a present from my parents, thankyou very much mum and dad) only to find that Reto's reckless "I won't phone them or make a reservation, we'll just turn up. It's a Tuesday night!" plan was foolhardy. In his defence, he did a surprising amount of grovelling when they told us they had no spare tables, but it was all in vain, and so instead we got takeaway from a Vietnamese restaurant up the road from our place. Happily, and contrary to most of my expectations, the Vietnamese food was really lovely, and the meal was marred only by the fact that my hands had become so numb on the walk back from our non-restaurant meal (which was a good 20 minutes each way, plus assorted bits of dawdling near the restaurant and while I was on the phone being inundated with happy birthday phone calls) that I couldn't really work my chopsticks. What with most of my fingers doing their extremely normal (although not usually in spring) trick of turning deathly white, numb and bloodless, then horribly sore on their return to health.

My birthday dinner has now been postponed until Thursday (we've made a reservation already!). Reto tried to sell me the line that "it'll be even better because you get to look forward to it for another two days!" but no one was buying that claptrap.