Baby pic
Mummy and botak me

What’s the obsession with the Number Three?
I must insist that it doesn’t suit me
I squeezed and I scrunched but could barely free
Any memory of turning thirty.

I can hardly sing, I didn’t win the grammy
I dance like a klutz, quite like a zombie
A philanthropist I’m not, I’m no Gandhi
I can’t bake although I worship Jamie.

Well the walk down the aisle must definitely be
The highlight of being two and thirty
And even then I almost nimbly
Did a somersault in my snugly tied saree.

My hairstyles have ranged from short to frizzy
My hair colour would have made Renoir envy
Isn’t it a mystery why as a baby
I was hairless and bald just like my hubby?

These were the years of discovery
New interests like painting and making jewellery
And then came blogging, my latest hobby
It was a match made in heaven, like me and Kenny.

I suppose I should count myself lucky
For weekend B^*ches like dear Hairy
Who spends a good hour or three
Explaining to me his love for KFC.

Dear God, when I grow to be forty
Let my boobs be big and firm and perky
Let my waist always be twenty three
Inches, not metres, possibly?

Oddly enough, I am not wrinkly
It must be the char siu I eat regularly
For fat is surely the instant remedy
No crow’s feet, but I’ve become rather pimply.

The elderly are definitely quite happy
Just look at my idol, F-B-Bee
I must be like him, benevolent and jolly
A baker of pavlovas most legendary.

Yes, age, welcome, I stand and greet thee
Take me, mould me, and keep me healthy
I’ve never been happier, this is my ecstasy
My present, my now, happy birthday to me.

Please sir, may I have some pavlova?