Nat Locke: my perfect birthday has a sleep-in, the dog park, flowers, cancelled plans and a lot of nothing

I don’t want to boast but it’s my birthday this week. I know. It’s quite the achievement. But as someone who was born in what the kids are slanderously calling the 1900s, I’m coming around to the notion that it’s really just another day.

Gone are the heady days of picking the cake that Mum was going to make for me, although somehow she always guided me towards choosing the clock cake, which was basically just a round cake with hands that pointed to my new age. Obviously, that particular treat became redundant once I passed the age of 12, although a 24-hour digital clock cake might’ve got me to my mid-20s. What a missed opportunity.

Still, I’ve been celebrating my birthday every year for my whole life. I know. I’m special like that. But as the years stack up, I’m starting to care a whole lot less. I am not one of those “It’s my birthday festival!” kind of people. In fact, I don’t think I ever have been. I’ve had two big birthday parties in my life — my 21st and my 40th. The rest have passed with ever-diminishing levels of enthusiasm.

In fact, if I was to design the perfect birthday for me, this is what it would look like.

Firstly — and perhaps most importantly — I would not have to get up at 4am because my generous boss would have given me the day off. Ah, that sweet, sweet sleep-in. What a great start. Hopefully the cat would be briefed not to demand breakfast at 4.15am too.

Fully refreshed, I would take my dog for a walk and a puppuccino and sip my first long black of the day whilst staring contentedly into the distance. If I’m feeling peckish, a lightly toasted hot cross bun slathered in butter will do the trick. There must be some advantages to having a birthday this close to Easter.

Next, I would buy myself a bunch of gorgeous flowers and treat myself to a little present. Let’s see. A new pair of earrings or a book (or two). Something I’ve been eyeing off for a while. Then, dammit, I might have another coffee. I know. This is some pretty wild stuff.

Then, for an indeterminate amount of time, I would do nothing. No cleaning of the kitchen. No folding of laundry. No vacuuming. And while I’m at it, no errands. No grocery shopping. No dropping of bags of donations to op shops. No thinking about what I’m supposed to be doing. Just, nothing. I might read. I might just sit.

In the evening, there’s another trip to the dog park, naturally. And then I’d pick one of the 200-plus bottles of gin I have lying around (I’m a collector, not a hoarder) and mix myself up a big ol’ gin and tonic. Sublime.

So far, you might have noticed that it’s been a pretty insular day, which is a large part of the appeal. But also, my birthday falls on a Tuesday, so I have no expectation of friends wanting to do something on a school night. But if they truly loved me and wanted to spoil me, this is how they could do it. They would make elaborate plans for us on the evening of my birthday, then at about 5.30pm, they would text me to cancel.

Oh, sweet joy. There is nothing as glorious as cancelled plans. Especially on a Tuesday night. Then I could go back to my spot on the couch, order Uber Eats and relish in a day perfectly spent.

Of course, this is all highly theoretical because my boss has not given me the day off, the cafe at my dog park is closed on a Tuesday, I’ll be so exhausted from my early start that I’ll need to nap half the afternoon, and if I don’t drop those three bags of clothing donations in to the op shop on Tuesday, then I will be driving them around for the rest of eternity.

In reality, I’ll get a few high fives at work, my boss might (and I stress might) buy me a coffee, there could be a cake for my workmates to enjoy and the dog will still get walked three times a day. For a special adventure, I might take the huge bag of 10¢ containers to the recycling facility. I know. This is living. I won’t even keep the money — I like to donate it to an animal charity. But what a treat for me. Happy birthday indeed.