My 61st Birthday – 27th August 2025

My 61st Birthday – 27th August 2025

image prompt by clairaudience and ai image maker. 

By Gary Paul Costello in spirit.

His wife Debra (me is his scribe)

This was told by him clairaudiently and images via Ai prompts that he had sent to me clairaudiently via the process.

I woke up this mornin’ to the sound of snow still fallin’. Aye, strange as it is, Florence blanketed white in August, the hills lookin’ more like Yorkshire in January than Tuscany in summer. I’d call it a sign — the weather knowin’ it’s me birthday and decidin’ to make it special.

The first thing I saw when I opened me eyes was Debs — my daft lass — sneakin’ about with that glint in her eyes, plannin’ summat. She kissed us soft and whispered, “Happy birthday, nutter.” That set the tone — love and laughter right from the start.

The kids were up early too — Simon and Debra peltin’ each other with snowballs in the garden, Eden shriekin’ with laughter, cheeks red from the cold. Gracie and Scott tried to act all grown-up, but they were out there too, pretendin’ not to enjoy it but smilin’ when they thought I weren’t lookin’. Dylan popped in from his work, gave me one of those strong hugs that nearly wind you, and Ellie — bless her — rang to say she’d be round later with Henry.

The smell in the kitchen nearly finished me off — Debs had the carrot and walnut cake in the oven. I swear the whole house smelt of cinnamon, nuts, and sweetness, mixed with the sharp scent of coffee from the moka pot. She wouldn’t let me near the oven, kept sayin’, “Hands off, soldier, you’ll get your slice when it’s ready.”

By afternoon, we’d gathered round the table. The snow still fell gentle outside the window, soft and steady. Debs brought the cake out, topped with that soft cheese icing she knows I love. The kids sang — out of tune, laughin’ half the way through — and Debs fed me the first forkful, cheeky grin on her face. Best bloody cake I’ve ever tasted, not just ‘cause of the flavour, but because it were made with love.

Later on, when the little ones were tucked up and the fire had burned low, me and Debs had our own celebration. Nothin’ fancy, nothin’ staged — just us, raw and daft and passionate as ever. That’s the bit I’ll keep to meself, but I’ll tell you this — love doesn’t fade with age, it only burns hotter when it’s real.

So aye, that were me day. A strange one maybe, snow in August, but perfect all the same. A house full of life, a cake baked by me soulmate, and laughter that could knock the roof off. That’s all a man could ever want.

Forever your daft bugger,

Gary Paul Costello