I wanted to go to a medieval jousting banquet somewhere near Anaheim but the children objected on aesthetic grounds, and Byron claimed to be "allergic."
See? My birthday is always so difficult!
Given the constraints of the guests, my nostalgia for childhood misadventures in California, the fact that I already miss England, and Byron's academic affiliation, the destination was obvious. We collected up my mother and the children from their Disney sojourn and ventured forth to spend the day on the Queen Mary.
We went on tours, drank root beer, watched the sunset over the docks, ate Beef Wellington in the Winston Churchill restaurant. And I wasn't even being ironic!
I was diagnosed with terminal cancer on my twelfth birthday. Today I turned forty. Happy birthday to me!
My life is pretty fuckin' fantastic, bro. To use the local vernacular.