Thirty years ago

We dropped off two-year-old Julia in day care telling her teacher that we were in a hurry. The teacher didn't ask any questions. We called a friend asking her to pick up Julia from day care in the afternoon. Staffan speeded and didn't stop at red.

Two hours later, we called the same friend again, who assured us that she would pick up Julia and we didn't have to worry. We were calling to tell her it wouldn't be necessary.

Staffan picked up Julia and all siblings to come and see their baby brother. I must admit I don't remember it, but according to Lisa, Julia had a look, stepped aside and threw up.

What I remember is the look I received from the young new mother next to me. Seeing four children around the baby, and having just gone through it herself, she certainly wondered why on earth anyone would want to do it again.

Report from the celebration marathon, Day 5

See Introduction, Day 1, Day 2, Day 3, Day 4.

Somehow, I've run out of steam, and last week feels like plusquamperfectum, but I guess I owe you, My Dear Reader, the conclusion of the story.

The journey home was uneventful, the always-on-time airline was on time, and we were safely in bed long before midnight. The cat didn't seem to have noticed our absence. I was still feeling horrible the morning after, and if it hadn't been a dinner for me that night, I would have sent an apology. But you can't flake from your own birthday dinner. I considered asking Staffan to drive me and taking a taxi home, but decided against it. However, I realised my mistake when I parked in the large parking structure and walked through the weirdly empty mall with all shops closed. A bad movie played in my head: I never turn up at the dinner, and my cold corpse is found next morning in some dark corner... It was too late to get out and park elsewhere. I decided not to let the prospect of going back into the parking spoil my evening.

I was the first to arrive, which I always find awkward – yet another example of my “victim behaviour”. But the table was ready, and very soon another colleague arrived, and I had to relate the events of the week once, and twice and all over again as the table filled. I had never been to this place before, although I drive past it every day. It is very discretely hidden behind a kitchy Eastern European delicatessen that has advertised its imminent inauguration for the past year. But next time I want to invite someone to a fancy dinner in Cambridge, this will be my choice. Even with all the previous nice meals of the week, that one was by far the most exquisite (sorry, Clas på hörnet).

What's more, I had thought that I had heard so many nice words during the week that I wouldn't be overwhelmed again, but I was. And these were not big words in front of a gathering of people, but words spoken by a very intimate group of colleagues whole opinion I value. I won't say they were surprising, but rather unexpected, because they weren't the kind of words people are obliged to say, but the kind they say because they want to. If you know what I mean. I was moved more than I perhaps showed since, honestly, I didn't know what to say except repeated thank-yous which isn't a very nuanced response. I will have to find a way of saying thank you properly because these people have made the past four years of my life possibly the most happy years and definitely the most satisfactory years professionally.

When we were leaving, I asked the only male in the group to accompany me to the parking structure. 

 

Report from the celebration marathon, Day 4

See Introduction, Day 1, Day 2, and Day 3

Since I was a good girl and went to bed early I woke up as usual, and Staffan and I and cousin Birgitta had breakfast together. Then Staffan took Birgitta to the railway station and went to do more shopping (that is, making purchases), while I had another cup of coffee with Sergej with the two little girls efficiently preventing us from talking. They were very excited because they were going to a circus that day. I tried to pay for the coffee and soft drinks, but the waiter said it was on the house. Given the bill we had paid, a cup of coffee here or there didn't make much difference, but it was nice of him.

Then we went over to Julia's. They had moved last autumn, and we had not been in their new apartment. It was light and decorated with great taste – not that I had expected anything else. I could tell that there had been some negotiations, but I could also feel that they both love the space they have created together. Some of their common and individual hobbies were tangibly present. I made myself stop being envious. Not envious as I am now, but envious for me thirty years ago. I am in fact happy that my daughter has a room of her own.

Then the guests started coming, and there were hugs and presents and flowers “for the hostess”. Julia had made some canapés and cupcakes, and there was sparkling which I carefully avoided having in mind flying in just a few hours. Most of the friends hadn't seen each other for years, possibly since our farewell party almost four years ago. They obviously enjoyed talking to each other. I kept looking at the clock and trying to figure out how much of the presents I would be able to pack in our already full suitcases. I had to leave behind a huge painting that my sister-in-law had sent, one from Staffan's childhood home. I like it, and it would go well with other art we have, but it will have to be another time.

I had to hint to some friends that we actually had a plane to catch, which they found weird (one friend had sent apologies because she was travelling the day after), but then they know we are weird. We left three bottles of expensive wine to Julia and Pontus since there was no way we could take it with us.

The drive to the airport was painless, and we arrived an hour before check-in even started so we had a light and quite decent dinner. The departure hall brought the memories of four years ago when Julia had taken me to the airport, and all bridges had been burned. I made the memory go away. This time we were returning home.

To be continued. 

My wonderful in-laws Elise and Christian took pictures. 

Report from the celebration marathon, Day 3, part 2

Click for Introduction, Day 1, Day 2 and 3

Just before I went upstairs after the fabulous lunch I remembered to check the set-up for dinner, and I am glad I did. I had spent a lot of time on the seating plan. Ten years ago I learned from the lady who was doing my dinner that the object of celebration should by no means sit at the top of the table – which anyone would say was the most appropriate – but in the middle, because then you were just half as far away from both ends than if you were sitting at the top. So I had started there, and I wanted the cousins of matching age to sit together, because they don't meet as often as I would like them to; and I had to place a familiar adult beside the youngest children, and then the usual: alternate gender, don't place spouses together, pay attention to seniority. I had put a lot of thought into it, and it turned out there were two tables. Hence I spent most of the time between lunch and dinner working on a new seating plan. I am sure there is some clever software for this, but I didn't have time to explore. The little time left, I admired my festschrift and checked Facebook for birthday greetings. I know that Facebook prompts friends about birthdays, but you still need to make an effort of clicking on the link and writing “Happy birthday”, and most friends wrote more substantial messages and appended pictures and music. Small tokens of attention, but oh so much joy.

Then I finally put on the outfit I had bought for the occasion.

There was another party in the bar where welcome drinks were served, and I wonder what they thought when all my children and grandchildren started arriving, and there were noisy discussions about who wanted what kind of soft drink and who was old enough to have a taste of the real stuff. Once again, I had said “No presents”, but the kids had warned me that they wouldn't listen to this nonsense. So there were some presents, and there was another big surprise, of which I must tell in detail.

One bunch of grandchildren was discussing what to give granny for her birthday. The five-year-old suggested jewellery, blouse, skirt, scarf, shoes, handbag. The seven-year-old said firmly: “No, Granny wants a smartphone”. They looked at her with doubt, but she was adamant. “Have you forgotten? When we went to visit Granny in England, and she kept looking at the boys' phones and asking what they could do, and she said she wanted maps and star charts and bus timetables”. Isn't she a clever kid? The father consulted his little brother (who had been nagging me for years about a smartphone), and that was decided. Technical support was promised when Julia and Pontus came to visit us the next week. Don't misunderstand me. All the other presents were lovely, each in its own way, but this is such a sweet story.

The rest was more or less predictable, but still wonderful. Even the youngest grandchildren behaved well and enjoyed the special children's meal, and the older ones realised that they could talk to each other live rather than through their phones. The family chorus sang the song that Staffan had written for me, and the two sisters sang “When I am sixty-four” reading the lyrics from their phones. Between main and dessert we asked the waitress to take a family photo. Then we retreated to the bar for postprandials, and the youngest kids started dosing off which the parents completely ignored. And I thought how clever we were to stay at the same place where the dinner was. Because when everybody left we merely had to go upstairs.

To be continued.

Report from the celebration marathon: day 2 and 3

Click for Introduction and Day 1

Day 2 was uneventful. I woke up as poorly as I went to bed. I had a supervision at ten and a meeting at eleven, neither of which I could cancel because they were among the ones I had to cancel the week before. The meeting took longer than I had anticipated, and finally I had to say: Sorry, gentlemen, I have a plane to catch. Which was almost true, because I just about had time to get home, pack the last things, have a quick lunch, and off we went. I had been living completely in the now and hadn't registered that our flight actually left at five, not at eight. The queuing at Stansted was as tedious as ever, and at security check I realised that I had my throat spray in my backpack and was too lazy to return and get a plastic bag. I was to regret it bitterly during the days to come.

We decided that we could just as well eat something on the plane. It wasn't a gourmet meal, but we were looking forward to a number of those, and at that point we just needed something in our stomachs. Getting our rental car was quick, and it didn't take us more than an hour to get to Stockholm (airport bus usually takes an hour and a half). I had to remind Staffan to drive on the right, and we kept telling each other what a pretty landscape we were driving through. Eventually we came to Clas på hörnet, and I had a cup of tea and went to bed.

I had not expected champagne breakfast in bed and fortunately didn't get it. The breakfast was nice, and after that Staffan went shopping (although he would characterise his action as “making purchases”), and I don't remember what I did. Probably was nervous. From an email that Staffan had sent to me by mistake I knew that the mystical lunch guests had multiplied and were now ten rather than two. It could only mean one thing, and I was right, but it didn't take away the joy. Promptly at noon I went down to the dining room, and there they were, my wonderful former students from Finland and a couple of former colleagues, and did they sing for me? And what did they give me?

Yes, I had anticipated a festschrift, but it was a wonderful surprise nevertheless, just to see who had contributed and who was on Tabula Gratulatoria, and how much thought and love there was behind this volume.

A festschrift is a very special kind of book. It is academic and occasionally contains truly ground-breaking scholarship. But it also allows light stuff. I once contributed to a festschrift for someone I knew collected hippos. I wrote a piece on the semiotics of hippos in children's literature. I had fun writing it. I hope the object of celebration had fun reading it.

There is no festschrift tradition in the UK (I actually had to explain to my Cambridge colleagues what it was), but in Germany and Scandinavia is it common to produce one for people's sixtieth, and it is a great honour, a recognition of your academic career. As I say, I half anticipated it, but actually didn't believe I would get one because I no longer had a Scandinavian academic affiliation. In fact, I remember saying to a Swedish colleague at a conference that I didn't expect a festschrift. And she was part of the conspiracy! But it was two former students, nowadays younger colleagues, who edited it, behind my back, tracking down people with whom I had lost touch, but who remembered me well enough to be willing to give me their precious time and energy for my birthday. There are four poems, and all articles are somehow connected to my academic work; one of them is a very rigorous critique of my PhD, and I haven't yet figured out whether it is a joke.

To be continued.

Here are my mystical guests: from the left (not counting Staffan) Janina Orlov, Elina Druker, (me), Ulf Stark, Mia Franck, Kin Hallberg, Mia Österlund, and sitting, Maria Lassen-Seger.

Report from the celebration marathon day 1

You can plan as much as you want, but fate will always decide otherwise. To begin with, I got a most nasty flu the week before. So nasty that I had to cancel all meetings and supervisions and spent most of the week in bed. The cancellations included the born-on-May-16 drink, and I already had a vision of the Homerton reception going on without me (so that they could say what they really think of me), and non-refundable air ticket, and all the mysteries and surprises wasted. I did go to work on Friday, but felt profoundly rotten. At lunch, Morag asked me whether I liked surprises. By that time, I didn't care. Just as I was about to leave, one of the born-on-May-16 ladies came into my office with a lovely tea-tree, hurrying to say: “I know you said no presents, it's not for you, it's for your garden”. It was very sweet of her, but the idea of having to plant a tree almost made me sick. I went home and spent two more days in bed, contemplating the Universal Injustice.

On Monday morning I dragged myself out of bed and went to a long, albeit productive meeting. Then I went back home and drank gallons of tea with honey. It was cold and rainy, and putting on the new outfit purchased for the occasion was out of the question. I was unreasonably anxious. When I was in therapy many years ago, my counsellor explained to me that my attitude to life was called “victim behaviour” meaning that whatever happened I thought it was my fault. She helped me deal with it, but sometimes it breaks through. I kept thinking it was the wrong day, and I had ordered too little or too much food, and the invitations had been sent long ago so people would have forgotten and nobody would turn up; and although I was unquestionably a Fellow people would think or even say: Who is she anyway; and I would stumble and fall because of my high heels; and what if I just take my car and drive as far away as a full tank would take me.

I was brought back to earth when I went to the ladies' and saw a sign outside Combination Room

Then of course it was all around me, the food and bottles arrived (just a bit late, and I had to remind them that I had ordered sparkling rather than regular wine), and the students gave me an olive tree, repeating the reason: “It's not for you, it's for you garden”. And when I started on my well-rehearsed speech, I suddenly forgot all I wanted to say and certainly sounded daft, but hopefully, being the object of celebration, was forgiven. 

Then came the surprise. Morag had warned me, and I was pretty sure the students would bring a cake, since they are famous for their cakes, but I wasn't prepared for what was to come. I had thought maybe a gift card for a garden centre or a dollhouse shop. Or a visit to some famous garden or a garden show or a dollhouse fair. Somehow my thinking didn't go beyond gardens and dollhouses, since I knew that all my friends knew about my major passions. But Morag knew me better than I knew myself, and she had taken a completely different direction. So what did they get me? A day with a personal shopper! It took me a couple of moments to take it in: Are they saying that my taste in clothes is so poor that I need guidance? But no, of course not, they know I love nice clothes, but hate shopping, so this was exactly what I didn't know I wanted, and it wasn't a present, but an experience, and it was the very best thing they could think of. They gave me a card which everyone, really everyone had signed, and Morag said afterwards that she hadn't anticipated such wide and generous response. She had started with just a few people, but apparently more people had heard and wanted to contribute, which felt so good I didn't even know what to say. To add to my confusion, the students brought out a cake so pretty I didn't dare to cut it, but I had to blow the candles, which I am sure I hadn't done for the past forty years. 

I think everyone enjoyed it. Two things nearly killed me though. Every five minutes I had to run to Staffan, who was sitting quietly in the corner, and borrow a tissue to blow my nose. I hope people thought I was moved to tears, but in fact my cold was getting worse. And by the end of the second hour my heels felt like torture tools, so when we finally left, I took them off and walked in my stockings, but I don't think anyone noticed or cared, because I was already carrying an olive tree, some wine bottles and boxes of chocolate (“No presents!”), a huge bouquet (“No flowers!”) and a pile of cards.

Needless to say, I went straight to bed.

To be continued.
Photos by Faye Yung. 

Report from the celebration marathon

Dear Reader, it cannot have escaped your attention that yours truly has just passed the magical threshold. The various stages of celebration went on for almost a week, reminiscent of the famous story of a royal relative sending a belated cable to the Czar of Russia: “For three days running we have been toasting your health”, to which His Majesty replied: “High time you stopped”.

About a year ago when I first started planning my sixtieth, there were many options I considered. One was to bring the whole family over to Cambridge and have a big party including local friends. It probably wouldn't be unreasonably expensive, but the logistics was too complicated. Therefore I asked the family to keep the date open and await further instructions. Ten years ago, for my fiftieth, I had a huge fancy dinner for friends, colleagues and grown-up family members. I couldn't possibly repeat the grandeur of that one, and I also felt that I wanted all the grandchildren to be present. Eventually we decided on a family-only dinner. We considered a stately home outside Stockholm, but again the logistics would be hard, so we found a very special place in town where we had been and knew the food was superb. It turned out they also had rooms.

That done, I started looking around for some form of celebration here in Cambridge. My first thought was that I only had been here for a short time, I didn't have many friends... and then I started counting, and when I got over forty it was pretty clear – apart from the happy realisation that I did have plenty of good friends – that some event was unavoidable. Moreover, it definitely felt a pleasure rather than a duty.

However, I didn't want to have a garden party at home. I've had those, and the house is big enough, but somehow it felt wrong for the occasion. I made some investigations and decided that the Combination Room at Homerton had the necessary ambience and that their catering would be good value. I decided that a Monday afternoon would be suitable, since people might not want to come in on the weekend. My first attempt was discouraging since the catering people demanded room hire double the costs of the reception itself, although I suggested that as a Fellow I might be allowed to use college facilities for free. I emailed a polite “Thank you, I'll look for another option”. Half an hour later they got back saying that the college Bursar had waived room hire.

As I was relating it all to Morag she wondered whether I would accept, as a birthday present from the teaching team, a fancy dinner. That sounded nice. More or less at the same time, Staffan announced that apart from the family dinner on the day, there would be a surprise lunch with two overseas guests who just happened to be in Stockholm. The serendipity wasn't very convincing, but he refused even to hint who the guests might be. I had my guesses, but he wouldn't confirm or deny. I was almost hundred percent sure the mysterious visitors would be from Finland because it was the only reasonable guess, and I thought that perhaps they would offer me an honorary doctorate. Another option might be a festschrift, but I didn't quite believe it.

As I sent out invitations for the reception at Homerton, two people replied with a comment that their birthdays were two days later, on May 16. I had never, ever met anyone with the same birthday as mine so I wrote back pointing this out and suggested that we three born-on-May-16 ladies should go out for a drink together. Which both thought was a brilliant idea, and we even managed to find a date, after a Faculty meeting the week before.

Meanwhile, my thoughtful daughter Julia wondered whether I seriously considered ignoring all friends in Stockholm and volunteered to do a reception for me which was a very noble action. She immediately created a Facebook event, and the two Facebook-passive friends also received invitations by email. Most of them responded at once and were delighted.

Thus the celebration was to continue over a week: drink with born-on-May-16 ladies on Thursday, Homerton reception on Monday, flight to Sweden on Tuesday, surprise lunch and family dinner on Wednesday, reception on Thursday, back to Cambridge on Thursday evening, and a dinner with close friends on Friday. For each occasion, I very strictly specified: no presents, no flowers, although I was sure at least some people would go against my wish or simply fail to read the instructions. As the date approached, I was torn between happy apprehension and horror. Some days I wished I had decided to disappear to an undisclosed destination.

To be continued.

Milestones

Tenth birthday: my party was cancelled because my great-grandmother died. Nobody told me that she had died, but suddenly one day her bed was empty. They didn't take me to the funeral. I had my party the following weekend. Don't remember anything special about it. My mother used to have nice birthday parties for me, with dressing up and party games. I invited classmates and some neighbour children. 

 This is not a birthday photo, but as close to the age as I have. There are very few photos from my childhood.

Twentieth birthday: newly married and moved from a luxury apartment two block from the Kremlin to my husband's tiny room with shared kitchen and bathroom with another family, in an industrial zone outside Moscow. Nevertheless huge party with friends and my father and aunt (don't remember why my mother couldn't come). I had baked a huge cabbage pie and bought a cake. My father said it was sacrilege to put birthday candles on a cake from a shop so they had to go on the cabbage pie. I was pregnant, but didn't know it yet. 

Thirtieth birthday: my first birthday in Sweden. Staffan not particularly responsive to the idea of celebrating such an insignificant birthday. I was pregnant and it had started showing. The year before, which was my last birthday before I left Sweden, I had a huge party with all friends, effectively a farewell party. Funny posters, poems and songs, flowers, presents. Joyful and sad.

 

 A 17th-century mansion where I spent my first year in Sweden.

Fortieth birthday: after the previous ten failed attempts, I decide to celebrate in Moscow. Sixteen very carefully selected friends invited to a sit-down dinner in a friend's apartment. I was going to say: Don't remember why I could not do it in my parents' apartment, but I remember now. The apartment was being renovated. I went to a bank to change a hundred dollars into roubles. My friend told be to bring a big plastic bag. I didn't get it. The bank gave me two million roubles in ten-rouble notes. I bought a huge piece of meat at the farmer's market and made a roast in my friend's tiny kitchen. I had a sitting plan. I set the table Western style, with individual, very pretty starter platters. Afterwards, my friend told me that the other guests were shocked that I had become so Westernised and stingy. At a Russian party, you put dozens of starters on the table, and people help themselves until they are full and cannot eat the main. No pictures from that one.

Fiftieth birthday was grand. Castle environment, guests from all parts of the world, including Down Under; elegant three course dinner, speeches, poems, songs, and afterwards dance to the band of the Royal Guards in traditional uniforms. I cannot beat that. Sadly, many of the guests from that party are no longer among us.

The imminent sixtieth, at least as far as I know (although it has been hinted that some surprises are to be anticipated): a reception at Homerton, a family dinner in a fancy restaurant in Stockholm and a small reception for friends in Julia's apartment. Reports to follow.

So many things...

I haven't blogged for a while, and I don't know where to start. I should blog about wonderful days with Norton Juster when I was a bit jealous because he and Staffan got up very early and talked and talked. I should blog about the death of Maurice Sendak, trying to say something that hasn't been said by everybody else. Just two days before, Norton was telling us about Sendak - they were so close friends. Before that, I was planning to blog about another, much less famous children's writer who had passed away, Leila Berg, whose book The Adventures of Chunky, I loved passionately when I was a child. I should also blog about the anxiety and despair of a young mother whose four-year-old child is taken away from her into a hospital, with the words: "It was good you came now, two hours from now would be too late... You can call the day after tomorrow".  The memory comes as we read reports about a grandchild in a hospital in Sweden, luckily surrounded by the loving family. I should blog about Julia's little cat who, sadly, is no more, which brings memories of just a couple of months ago. I should blog about yesterday being the Victory Day in Russia and what it once meant to me. In the first place, I should blog about the imminence of three-score.

Surprise parties

I haven't got much experience of surprise parties, and it's perhaps just as well. When Staffan turned 50 he escaped from celebrations and went biking in France, but when he came back his friends started plotting. They hired a place, sent out invitations, divided tasks and prepared everything. Two friends were supposed to take him out for lunch and instead bring him to the venue. My role was simply to come over as soon as they had left, but not dress up before that, not to raise his suspicions.

On the morning of the day, Staffan announced that he had a cold and phoned the two friends to cancel the lunch. They called me in despair and after a brief war council we decided that they would come over to us and then pretend they wanted a particular blend of whisky (for lunch! highly plausible) and persuade Staffan to go together to the liquor store. Somehow they did manage to persuade him - he must have been off guard because of his cold. He had not showered that morning and was wearing his shabbiest jeans and shirt. Frankly, he looked awful. As soon as they had left, I put on my party clothes and makeup and hurried to the venue where some thirty guests were waiting with champagne bottles ready. Some minutes later, one of the kidnappers came in, frustrated. As soon as they had driven past the liquor store and toward the centre, Staffan got suspicious, and when they parked, he promptly refused to get out of the car. I had to go and talk to him, and when he saw me in my fancy dress - half an hour after he had seen me at home in my track suit - he finally relised what was going on, and his reluctance grew. I was uncertain what tactics to use, but eventually told him not to be a wet blanket but come in and see his friends who had taken all the trouble.

I don't think he has forgiven me yet, although it wasn't my idea.

Unlike Staffan, I love celebrations, and when I turned 50 I gave a huge dinner party which I had planned almost a year in advance. (That is another story which I may tell sometime). But I also knew that at work we usually celebrated people's birthdays with a cake at our weekly afternoon coffee, so although I had no classes that day I decided to attend the coffee and allow myself to be celebrated. Since I also knew that we usually collected money for a gift and consulted a family member about what might be desirable, I had told Staffan that if anyone consulted him, I wanted a gym card and no cut flowers. They did indeed consult them, and apparently he knew about the surprise.

I was marking essays or something like that in the morning when Staffan inquired whether I was quite sure that the celebration was in the afternoon, and I told him I was. Two-thirty, as usual. Behind my back, Staffan called my department, and soon after there came a call from a friend who wondered whether I was aware that there was a surprise lunch for me at twelve. My first reaction was to jump into my car and drive as far away as possible from Stockholm and my department. I knew I would have enjoyed a surprise party, but they could have made sure I turned up. I finally did turn up and even enjoyed it, but there was a little cloud in the silver lining.

All this to thank my wonderful students for the surprise party for which they really made sure I was there. They had planned it for my actual birthday last Monday. Morag's role was to invite me to have a cup of birthday tea after my class, and I never had the slighest suspicion, just thinking how sweet of Morag. The day before I learned that my dear son would be in London for a couple of hours on Monday - the best birthday present I could have - so I cancelled the class to go and see him. I can imagine the students' disappointment! However, after I had humbly apologised and assured them I would let myself be celebrated next year, I had no clue that the party was still on. (They had created a Facebook event for it - I almost start crying now as I think about it). So last Friday, as I finished the class moved from Monday and was putting away my things, the door opened and in they marched, not just those attending in the class, but the whole bunch of masters, coming in specially, on a Friday afternoon! With cake and all.

It is such moments that make everything worth while, even fighting the windmills of University administration.

Blog challenge Day 18 – Your favorite birthday

You only turn half a century once in a lifetime, so I decided to have a big party. Because of my peregrination I had friends here, there and everywhere whom I wanted to invite, and the only way I could do it was to organise an international conference. This brought in people from the USA and Australia, and it was a bit easier with Russia and Finland. I had to book the venue a year in advance because it was a castle, the Royal Horse Guard Mess in Stockholm. Possible because of Staffan's connections in military music. There was a reservation in the booking contract that if the Commander-in-Chief of the Swedish Armed Forces wanted the venue at short notice he would have priority. We took the risk. We also had to get special permission to take foreign citizens into Swedish military territory.

The catering at the Mess helped me to compose the menu and plan the schedule. “Birthday? Count with at least four hours at table”. She was right. We started with arrival drinks in the magnificent rooms, and then sat down at table in a huge hall with marble columns and crystal chandeliers. There were speeches and songs and sonnets written and performed by friends and family, and I laughed and wept and laughed again. There were people from all the many periods of my life, my former teachers, my former students, my present colleagues, my co-authors, my travel companions, my family and my Cucumber Mum, a Swedish children's author who had adopted me as her “sweet little cucumber”. The food was superb, and there was a surprise desert that I had not ordered. There was dancing to a band in old-fashioned army uniforms. When the clock struck one, nobody wanted to go home.

I cannot imagine a grander birthday. Thank you all who made it such a wonderful day. Peace over those who are longer among us.