A birthday hedgehog

 

How lovely birthdays become as old age approaches. No need any more to spend the evening partying, or perched on an uncomfortable bench in a restaurant, before going home to do battle with one's digestive system, armed only with a blister-pack of Gaviscon - no, these days we go out for breakfast, which is a far more civilised time to be out on the town. This year we went to Riverstation. As the name suggests, it occupies part of the original course of the River Avon that is now Bristol's Floating Harbour, and is roomy and dog-friendly. We sat snugly at our table in the window and watched Storm Ashley do its worst for an hour or so.

Can I have some avocado on flatbread, Mam?

Well, maybe not quite its worst. That was reserved for when we stepped outside to hurry the two minutes back to our car, only to get absolutely drenched when the skies opened. 

The final advantage of this arrangment is that it frees up the early evening for birthday cake, this year white chocolate and raspberry, in the company of the 25% of my children who were in Bristol on the day. 

I had some lovely old lady presents too: an Alaskan Husky faux fur warming throw at which Cwtch the Collie actually turned up her nose; a bunch of my favourite anemones from my children; and a plant and books on art and poetry from friends. Even a book I'd treated myself to - 'Powsels and Thrums', a collection of essays by my favourite author, Alan Garner - turned up with perfect timing.

I also went for a couple of walks. On Saturday afternoon my friend of 58 years, Liz, joined me and we had a wander around Three Brooks Nature Reserve at Bradley Stoke, followed on Sunday by a squelch around Charlton Common, once the sun came out. 

On the way to the latter, I slowed at a junction near the local church, only to glance down and see a young and still quite small hedgehog pootling about in the middle of the road, just a few inches from the wheel of my car. It was almost the colour of the fallen leaves around it, and I had a horrible feeling that unless we intervened, it would come to a tragic, if somewhat predictable, end. So I pulled over and the Northerner scooped it up and deposited it in the churchyard, safe from passing cars (for as long as it stays there).

And later we learnt there are other hogs living there, and a hedgehog house installed by the council, so clearly it'll be a good place to hibernate in.

 

And the encounter with the hoglet was, of course, the best present of all.