It’s here.

It’s officially the week I turn 40.

Paul is working away this week, from Monday until late Thursday/early Friday morning—which is cutting it a little fine considering Friday is my actual birthday.

So, plans for the week are as follows…

My cousin Roxy is coming to stay from down south on Wednesday. She’s basically my twin. We always have the best time together and, more importantly, we both think we’re absolutely hilarious.

Poor Paul.

Honestly, the two of us together are a lot.

But before any of that, I need to get the house scrubbed, get food in and generally prepare for what is shaping up to be a fairly big week.

So Monday and Tuesday are school runs, scrubbing the house to within an inch of its life, buying copious amounts of wine and meal planning as though I am an organised woman who eats a beautifully balanced diet.

Obviously.

Wednesday will be spent making beef stew and dumplings. I absolutely love cooking. I’m definitely more of a cook than a cleaner, and Paul is exactly the same.

If we ever turn into a throuple, the third person definitely needs to be more of a cleaner.

And the absolute priority?

Making sure I have a couple of bottles of 19 Crimes chilling in the fridge.

Priorities.

I’ve been asking my recently single cousin what she actually wants to do while she’s up here.

High on her priority list?

She wants me to take her to a swingers’ club.

Now, as a side note, I’m not actually out as a swinger. Most people in my real life have absolutely no idea.

Roxy only knows because, at my dad’s funeral, she was understandably upset about my dad, newly single and generally a bit head-fucked about where her life was at.

So naturally, I decided the appropriate way to cheer her up was to tell her I go to swingers’ clubs.

Honestly, it made complete sense at the time.

But absolutely not.

I am not going to a swingers’ club with my cousin on my birthday.

Even for me, that’s a bit weird.

A family that swings together…

is not a family I want to be a part of.

On Wednesday, after George had been swimming, I picked Roxy up from our nan’s house.

I said hello to everyone—my aunty and uncle were staying over too—and then we headed home to beef stew and dumplings.

I’d hoped George might have an early night, but Roxy is quite possibly his favourite person in the world, so there was very little chance of that happening.

Eventually, once he was settled, we opened a bottle of wine and compared notes on the absolute shit show our lives have both been recently.

Although, to be fair, you’re joining me at a point where mine is actually getting much better.

But nothing says two women hovering somewhere around forty whose lives haven’t quite gone to plan like cracking out the tarot cards, crystals and sage over a bottle of wine.

And for the record, I still had two days left before my birthday, so I was absolutely claiming late 30s.

I wasn’t giving that up a second earlier than necessary.

We laughed so much my stomach was cramping and my eyes were sore from crying.

It was a much-needed catch-up.

No one gets me quite like Roxy does.

The next morning, it was back to reality and the school run.

Roxy asked if I wanted to go shopping with her and her mum.

I politely declined.

I had other plans.

Admittedly, these other plans made me a bit of a saddo, and I couldn’t really tell anyone about them because they would absolutely take the piss.

But I’d decided something.

I was turning 40.

I needed balloons.

For clarity, I had already told Paul about two weeks earlier that I wanted balloons and that he needed to sort them.

Paul regularly works 90-hour weeks, though, so I thought I’d be helpful and get a few quotes. Then all he’d have to do was order them.

Perfect wife behaviour, really.

Then I discovered how much balloons cost.

£180.

Absolutely fucking not.

That’s a Kurt Geiger bag.

So I immediately went back to Paul and told him, in no uncertain terms, that the price of balloons was ridiculous, I 100% definitely did NOT want balloons anymore and, in fact, I would be pissed off if he even considered spending that much money on them.

Which was unfortunate.

Because I still wanted balloons.

At this exact moment, Paul was in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, trying to get the job finished so he could get home as quickly as possible for my birthday.

And no matter how much I, a still-technically-39-year-old adult woman, wanted balloons, I wasn’t putting that on his plate.

So, armed with his debit card, I headed to Card Factory to do the very important job of buying birthday balloons for myself.

I started with two massive rainbow sparkly numbers.

A 4 and a 0.

Go on. State the obvious, Zoe.

Then I added a mixture of hearts and stars in sparkly blue, purple and pink, all with rainbow string.

And two Happy Birthday balloons.

At this point, I was on the phone to Paul explaining that I’d decided to just get the balloons myself and had somehow ended up with ten of them.

“I think I’ve gone a bit overboard.”

Then, while still on the phone, I spotted a unicorn balloon.

Paul told me to buy it.

This man should know better.

I should not be allowed into a shop without adult supervision.

The lady in the shop asked who the balloons were for.

“Me.”

And I could immediately see the look on her face.

Awww. She’s buying her own birthday balloons.

So obviously I had to explain the entire situation.

How I’d wanted balloons.

Then discovered how much balloons cost and decided I absolutely did not want balloons.

Then woke up that morning and realised that actually, if I didn’t have balloons, my 40th birthday would somehow be a complete failure.

Perfectly rational.

While I was there, I also picked up banners, a birthday badge, candles and a birthday crown.

I might be a bit of a control freak.

I was now faced with the very important problem of figuring out how to get eleven balloons into my car and home in one piece.

Eventually, I managed it.

Then I hid them all in my bedroom.

Partly so George wouldn’t play with them before the next day.

And partly because when Roxy found out I’d gone out and bought my own birthday balloons, I knew I was never going to live it down.

When Roxy came back, she was armed with birthday banners, a badge, a sash, a crown and…

obviously…

balloons.

You genuinely couldn’t make it up.

She’d also brought a bottle of Prosecco.

“We might as well start the party early and open it tonight,” she said.

So into the fridge it went, waiting for George to go to bed.

Apparently, my 40th birthday celebrations had officially started.

We decided the best plan of action was leftovers from the night before, get George to bed, open the Prosecco and, of course, set up the balloons.

Then an early-ish night.

Because tomorrow was officially Zoe Day.

And hopefully, when I woke up, I’d have a husband in my bed.

My husband, Paul, obviously.

I don’t generally go to sleep hoping someone else’s random husband is going to be there in the morning.

Before bed, I called Paul to say goodnight and double-check that he was definitely going to be home in the morning.

He promised he’d be there by sunrise.

He even offered to do the school run, but I told him not to be ridiculous. He’d been working away all week and driving back through the night. I was going to be awake anyway, so he could catch up on some sleep.

Very sensible of me.

Birthday morning started with a 7 a.m. alarm.

Paul asked if I wanted a coffee and we headed downstairs, where Roxy and George were already up and George was happily eating his Weetabix.

Thank you, Roxy.

She’d also already made me a coffee and Paul a cup of tea.

Then I walked into the living room.

Paul had apparently come home in the night and set all my presents out like I was a child on Christmas morning.

And Roxy had gone one step further.

She had a “Happy Birthday Zoe” video from YouTube queued up and ready to play.

The only way I can describe it is as some sort of birthday fever dream.

At seven o’clock in the morning.

If you want to experience it for yourself, go onto YouTube and search “Happy Birthday [your name] epic.”

Trust me.

It was far too early for whatever was happening on that television.

But apparently this was Zoe Day, so we were going with it.

And now, obviously, it was time for presents before breakfast.

I knew what Paul had got me, and I was very excited to finally open that yellow Louis Vuitton box that had been teasing me from the corner of my bedroom for the last two weeks.

But there were also a few things I wasn’t expecting.

The first thing I opened was a T-shirt Paul had bought me. A birthday T-shirt in the style of Friends that said:

The One Where I Turn 40.

Obviously, that went on immediately.

I was now fully in birthday princess mode.

I’m not confirming anything, but I may also have been wearing my birthday crown.

Then it was finally time for the yellow box.

My new Louis Vuitton bag.

I’d known it was coming, but that didn’t make opening it any less exciting.

I also re-opened my preloved Gucci bag, which had technically been an early birthday present. It had arrived about a month before, actually on my dad’s birthday, so naturally I decided that was a sign from him that it was his 40th birthday present to me.

And obviously I’d already started using it.

That’s what he would have wanted.

Paul had also bought me a bottle of Chanel Chance, which smelled absolutely amazing. He’d had it gift-wrapped with a ribbon printed with the words Birthday Princess.

He knows me so well.

Then George passed me the present he had very thoughtfully got me.

As he handed it over, he looked at Paul and asked:

“Daddy, what is it?”

I feel Paul may have had some input into this particular present.

It was a Kurt Geiger bag I’d had my eye on—a pink, yellow and orange mini Kensington with an eagle wearing sunglasses.

Basically, the perfect holiday bag.

I thanked George.

And then I also thanked Paul.

I think I’m going to feel this a lot over the weekend, but I really am the luckiest girl.

Then Roxy said, “Do my presents!”

She’d put together this little purple-themed crate filled with drinks, sweets, skincare, smellies and makeup. It was so thoughtful and basically everything I like in one box.

Then she handed me a gift bag with a photo album inside.

Honestly, it was one of the most thoughtful presents I’ve ever received.

She’d secretly got everyone in my family to write me a letter and filled the album with them, along with photos, memories and stories.

The amount of time and effort that must have gone into putting it all together was amazing.

I absolutely loved it.

I didn’t read the whole thing there and then because, despite it being Zoe Day, I still had a school run to do.

And I knew I wanted to sit down later, take my time and properly enjoy it rather than rushing through it while trying to get George out of the door.

So, dressed in my new birthday T-shirt—I did put a jacket over it; I’m not that obnoxious—I grabbed my new Louis Vuitton bag and headed off to do the school run.

Although I quickly discovered I was strangely reluctant to actually put anything inside my new bag.

So naturally, I carried a very expensive empty handbag while stuffing everything into my pockets.

It’s a Louis Vuitton.

I can’t expect her to actually work and carry things like an everyday bag.

Completely normal behaviour.

School run completed, I headed home for breakfast and a chilled, lazy morning.

My sister-in-law had texted me earlier to say:

“Expect a parcel today.”

It arrived while we were having breakfast.

A massive box.

Obviously, I excitedly ripped it open.

Inside was a bottle of champagne, some cupcakes and…

obviously…

a balloon bouquet.

Okay.

It was official.

I now had an absolutely unhinged amount of balloons.

Clearly, I’d had nothing to worry about.

I feel there might be a lesson in here somewhere about trusting the process and not needing to have absolutely everything sorted myself.

I probably won’t learn it, but the lesson is there.

My other cousin, Leanne, was coming over that night and my mum had agreed to have George, which meant I could actually relax and properly enjoy myself.

Originally, we’d planned to go out out.

But it’s so rare that the three of us get together and, honestly, we’re three peas in a pod.

So we decided that Pimm’s, tapas and a night at home together sounded perfect.

Very civilised.

Obviously, it did not remain civilised.

At some point, the evening descended into the three of us raiding my fancy-dress clothes.

And because swingers apparently love a fancy-dress costume, I have a fairly substantial collection to choose from.

So there we were.

Three women around forty—apparently I’d crossed over from “late 30s” to “early 40s” somewhere in the middle of writing this blog—drinking Pimm’s in my house, dressed as Christina Aguilera, Ginger Spice and Austin Powers, singing Happy Birthday to me over a Colin the Caterpillar cake.

As you do.

I looked over at Paul.

I’m fairly certain he was quietly questioning exactly what sort of family he had married into.

But he loves it really.

He has just as much of a laugh with us.

At some point, Leanne decided it was home time. We’d be seeing her again tomorrow anyway, so eventually we all went to bed and, even better, had a lie-in the next morning.

And because we were child-free, Paul and I took full advantage of having the house to ourselves and absolutely no chance of a small child appearing at the side of the bed asking for breakfast.

It was a pretty perfect way to start the day.

As for the party that afternoon, I’d love to give you some completely unhinged anecdote because I feel like that’s what a serious blogger should do.

But honestly?

It was a bit of an anticlimax.

Not the party itself.

The party was perfect.

There was family, my vanilla friends, loads of food and drink, and I was absolutely spoilt rotten.

Jewellery. Perfume. Makeup. Spa days.

A frankly concerning amount of Grey Goose.

But there was no huge drama.

No scandal.

No ridiculous story that needs its own blog post.

It was just a genuinely beautiful day surrounded by all the people I love.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I realised something.

I haven’t just survived the bullshit of the last few months.

I’m starting to thrive.

I’m forty.

My life looks absolutely nothing like I probably thought it would look by this age and, honestly, thank fuck for that.

I have a husband I adore, a little boy I love more than anything, a family who will happily turn up with an unnecessary number of balloons, friends who love me, and people in my life who I love right back.

My life is chaotic.

It’s unconventional.

It occasionally involves swingers’ clubs, tarot cards, questionable decisions and far too many handbags.

But it’s mine.

And after everything that’s happened, I think I needed this weekend to remind me just how much good there is in it.

I really am the luckiest girl in the world.