My Revolutions

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Outside in the garden, workmen from the marquee company are bolting together an aluminum frame on the lawn. They shout to each other and make jokes, theatrically throwing bolts and brackets across the blossom-strewn patch of grass under the tree. It’s an old tree, taller than the house, and in autumn the fruit smashes when it falls to the ground. We should, I suppose, have had it cut down. The men seem happy. Maybe it’s because they work in an atmosphere of constant preparty excitement. Perhaps celebration gets inside them. The secret of the good life: putting up tents.

Other people are out there too. Caterers, a delivery driver; all preparing for the big do. Miranda has gone out for something or other, ribbon or flowers or place cards. For once, she said, she wanted me to be the center of attention. She knew I wouldn’t approve, but everyone deserved the chance to wish me a happy fiftieth. Everyone, I thought. Everyone? They’re her friends really, but I knew how kindly it was meant. And I found myself looking forward to my party. For a long time, more than half my life if you want to look at it that way, I’ve avoided large gatherings. It’s become instinctive, part of my personality. However, during the last few years I’ve started to lower my guard, a little. Which “karma-wise” (as Miranda would say, meaninglessly) seems to have been a mistake.

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