44

For the last five years I have been somewhat obsessed with the number 44, and I'm not sure why. It began when I started seeing Stu - he was 44 when I met him. The number 44 bus goes past his flat in Rumney. I began seeing 44 all over the place and wondered why it suddenly had such resonance for me. I knew I would be turning 44 five years hence and it made me think that this would, perhaps, be a significant age for me... I was all a-quiver with anticipation.

Then the day came - I finally turned 44 on 10 March 2012. (Strangely enough, I got up early that morning for a call of nature - the time? 4:44). Did I awake to a brave new world, my mind ablaze with enlightenment? Or had I simultaneously changed sex, Orlando style? Not exactly. Well, not at all to be honest. I did, however, wake to a lovely present from Stu; a rather nice checked shirt which I put on and preceded to mince round the flat singing Monty Python's 'I'm A Lumberjack', much to his annoyance.

As it turned out, it was an excellent start to being 44. After dropping Stu at work (and having an obscenely large fried breakfast at Sainsburys) I drove to Oxford to meet my sister Marcia, just arrived from London. From there I drove us to Radley to see our brother Kevin, who had kindly taken dad's lurcher Sue into his mobile home after he had died. We were joined by our older sister Denise, travelled up from Hampshire, who came bearing a rather large carrot cake that just had to be eaten there and then otherwise it would go in the bin. (It suddenly hit me what the number 44 might possibly signify - my waist size, if my calorific intake continued thus far).

From there it was into Abingdon and to the charity shops, followed by lunch at Throwing Buns in the Market Place. This excellent little eatery occupies the building that I used to work in back in the late 80s when employed by the Thames and Chilterns Tourist Board. It was a little odd being sat in the room where once I backed up computer data on discs the size of manhole covers. But the food was delicious and freshly prepared... yep, 44 waist size, here I come. It was refreshing to find such a nice little independent cafe in a town that is steadily being cannibalised by overpriced coffee shops.

Denise left to head home, so Marcia and I cruised back to Oxford with Rossini/Respighi's La Boutique Fantasque joyously blasting from the car speakers. We went to our favourite area of the city, the wonderfully alternative Walton Street, where we walked toward Port Meadow, eyeing up the gorgeous architecture and chatting about what our dream homes would be like.

We wandered round St Sepulchre's Cemetery (more photo opportunities there) and had tea at Manos, where I had been last year (see previous blog entry). I then accompanied Marcia back to Gloucester Green, having a bitch about Anthony Hopkins along the way, where she caught the coach back to London. At the bus station some random woman complimented me on the checked shirt. (More to the truth, she was rather taken by the little toy bunny I had place in the top left pocket... she even called me 'sir'. Odd).

And from there it was back to Cardiff, singing my little heart out as I drove along the M4.

So I've still no idea what the number 44 means for me - if anything. All I know is that 44 is looking pretty good as an age so far. Especially when my two excellent sisters are involved!