Birthday

(16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that’s mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I’m a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks, because I’m old
(I’m not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn’t let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won’t contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I’ll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I’m alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup –
Here’s health to
Seventy-and-five!

– Robert William Service

Birthdays. Everyone seems to have different ideas about them. It seems that Robert Service had quite similar thoughts to me and, despite not being 75 (nor, to my knowledge, having a wife or daughter), his poem rang true in many ways when I happened upon it.

The day began with golf and a trip to the Yas Links Club, courtesy of my Music Department colleage Martin. He is new to the game and enjoyed his first ever round on the 9 hole Par 3 Course. What a place to have your first game. Breakfast on the terrace of the clubhouse followed and served as confirmation that everything I have heard about this club is true. The quality of the golf is equal to the incredible views and fine hospitality. I felt very grateful ‘that I may game of golf enjoy’ at such a location. Birthday: so far so good.

Suitably caffeinated, we made our way back to base for pre-brunch preparations. Regular readers will know (if indeed any exist) that my first brunch experience was not at all disappointing. So what to do this time? A colleague had recommended the Ritz-Carlton as ‘the best brunch in Abu Dhabi,’ a bold claim indeed, and so a booking was made for a party of eight on two, socially distanced tables of four. The taxi ride provided me with my first ever sighting of the Grand Mosque; utterly breathtaking and surely worthy of an entire future installment.

Upon arrival I was informed by my guests that I was being upgraded to the Champagne brunch and didn’t have a choice in the matter. A waiter promptly arrived and proceeded to ‘fill to the brim the bubbly cup’. Mr Service would have been pleased.

Not as pleased, I suspect, as I was over the next three hours. If my first brunch was excellent (and it was) this was on another level. Station after station of enticing cuisine unfolded before me like the pages of a gentleman’s magazine of culinary provocation: antipasti, seafood, Chinese, Indian, Italian, a barbecue at which you selected your cuts raw and gave your table number to which your freshly grilled meat could be delivered. And cheese. Lots of cheese. One particular chef was at a station right in the middle preparing ostrich egg scrambled eggs, finished with truffle. A man appeared with a trolley offering laksa cappuccino with a crab croissant. Puddings were served at the table which revealed the next surprise my kind guests had laid on (see below). And all the while, the waiter continued to fill the bubbly cup. Until near the end, when more waiters appeared with trays of espresso martinis. This was only my second stroll down Brunch Avenue, however I can’t help thinking it is going to take some beating.

How could this day then be bettered? Surely the right call at this juncture would be to retire home, happy with the successes enjoyed thus far. But this would not be in the spirit of our introductory poem. As we have established, I am not yet 80 and thus my intention to in the ‘meanwhile let me whoop it up’ needed to be fully realised. I had again asked more established colleagues for recommendations for a bar. Once again they did not disappoint. I managed to persuade my guests away from post-brunch chats over cheese, into taxis and away with haste to Ray’s Bar in the Jumeirah Etihad Tower. My desire to shepherd my co-indulgers with such alacrity was so as to arrive in time for the sunset, as Ray’s Bar is situated on the 62nd floor. Now I do not profess to know who Ray is, but he certainly had a good thing going with his idea for a bar…..

Returning to our friend Mr Service, he promised that, “At eighty I’ll recant my sins, And lead a staid and sober life.” As I sit wallowing in a pit of rank, self-induced despair, the morning after the night before, I’m more minded to implement this immediately.

But I am no fan of self pity. Yesterday was officially A Good Day. A very, very good day. If ever proof were needed that this life decision I have made was a good one, yesterday was the closing statement. If I could tap ‘like’ on the social medium of life, I would. Instead……

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that’s mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I’m a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

Well, eight-and-thirty, but you get the jist.