So, my birthday was yesterday, and honestly, I still can’t decide if it was a total disaster or the most epic celebration of my life.
Let’s start with the fact that I, being a naive fool, trusted my best mate Emily to organise everything. She swore it would be “absolutely top-notch,” that the table would be overflowing with fancy food, and that everyone would be buzzing. Yeah, right, Emily! When I got home from work, I was greeted by a scene straight out of a comedy film about the worst parties ever.
The living room table was pure chaos. Leftover slices of ham and cheese, slightly dried out, were mixed with olives that nobody had even touched. The veg—cucumbers, tomatoes, and some sad-looking bell peppers—looked like they’d been chopped up last Monday. I started to suspect Emily had just grabbed whatever was in the fridge and called it a “party spread.” Bottles of wine, juice, and fizzy drinks were scattered about, some already half-empty. Clearly, someone had started the party without me.
Emily met me at the door, beaming like a Christmas tree. “Well? Brilliant, isn’t it?” she asked, proudly gesturing at this culinary catastrophe. I just nodded, trying to hide my shock. Didn’t want to upset her—she’d clearly put in the effort. But all I could think was, “Who serves dried-up ham at a birthday party?”
My brother Oliver, ever the contributor to chaos, decided to add his own touch. He brought a cake that looked like it had been through a war. The box was crumpled, the icing smeared on the lid, and the “Happy Birthday!” message had morphed into something Picasso might’ve painted. “I picked it myself!” Oliver announced proudly, plonking it on the table. I stared at this masterpiece and figured we’d light the candles as-is—maybe in the dim lighting, no one would notice its tragic state. But Oliver was so chuffed with himself, I couldn’t ruin his moment. He’s my brother, and his enthusiasm always outweighs his disasters.
My coworker Hannah also did her bit. She handed me a gift—a set of cosmetics that, judging by the slightly battered box, had been gathering dust at her place. “Thought you’d like these!” she said with such a genuine smile that I couldn’t even muster annoyance. Well, at least I’d have something new for the bathroom shelf. Though, let’s be honest, I already knew that “blossoming cherry” hand cream would be way too sticky, and the mascara would be dried out. But hey, small things.
The guests, by the way, added their own flair. Someone brought a karaoke machine, and within half an hour, the whole house was vibrating with off-key renditions of nineties classics. Emily, inspired by a couple of glasses of wine, decided she was the reincarnation of Whitney Houston and belted out “I Will Always Love You” with so much passion I’m pretty sure the neighbours are still talking about it. Oliver, not to be outdone, jumped in with “Wonderwall,” sending everyone into fits of laughter.
By midnight, the table looked even worse, but the mood was sky-high. We laughed at the ridiculous gifts, shared old stories, and even had an impromptu competition for the funniest toast. Hannah won with her wish for me to have “enough happiness that it won’t fit in a suitcase, but without weighing as much as a suitcase full of bricks.” Still not entirely sure what she meant, but it sounded genius.
As people started leaving, I looked at the wreckage of my living room and realised I’d never forget this birthday. Yeah, the food was far from perfect, the cake looked like it survived an earthquake, and the gifts raised more questions than excitement. But there was so much laughter, warmth, and madness that I wouldn’t trade that night for anything. Emily, Oliver, Hannah, and the rest made it exactly what a birthday should be—lively, real, and a bit bonkers.
Next time, I’ll probably take charge of the organising. Or at least hide the dried-up ham before guests arrive. But honestly? These kinds of parties are what life’s all about. And I’m already looking forward to next year to see what madness my friends and family come up with next.
