A few years ago, when you came to visit us, here in Australia, you livened up a bus trip back to our house by shouting ‘Jesus Christ!’, quite loudly, when our inexperienced driver hit a pot hole at top speed. Like, really loudly. It was a pretty standard Clayton response, but the entire bus turned to stare at us, and had obviously never witnessed such unfettered disgruntlement. It was glorious. I like to think of that moment every time I travel back on the same bus, and hit the same pot hole. Then I usually think of the millions of funny things that you did or said, that still make me laugh out loud when they pop into my head. Like when we went to see that dreadful Kurt Russell movie, ‘Unlawful Entry’ and you shouted ‘Shoot him, Kurt!’ during the tense ‘Psycho is only pretending to be dead and will spring back to life suddenly’ style finale. Or the time you flew 10,000 miles with a concealed Mr. Blobby costume and nearly gave me a heart attack by rushing into the front room wearing it, unannounced. Funny.
And that’s how we spent your birthday. Thinking of you being funny and having an indoor disco, with flashing lights, glo sticks, whilst listening to that CD you made Alex for his 11th birthday. You know, the one that starts with DJ Otzi’s ‘Hey Baby’. (Thanks for that.) God, there were some shockingly bad songs on that CD, Sarah. That’s why I treasure it.
I even baked sausage rolls after work, though I was in a rush, and they did look a bit like diagrams of horribly botched circumcisions. Tasted fine though. Suffice to say, we finished up doing the Can Can whilst listening to Bad Manners, even though we were absolutely stuffed full of sausage, crisps and sweets. I like to think you would have approved, Sarah. I woke up this morning covered in spent glo bracelets and with caramelised onion flavoured potato chips in my teeth. If there is a more appropriate way to celebrate the spirit of you on your birthday, I’d be very surprised. Love you.