Happy birthday, Spud! You survived me to manhood; you deserve a medal…or at the very least, a trip to the RSC to see Simon Russell Beale smash Prospero.
Oh, wait, we did that yesterday!
This is you, handsome as always:
This is you, letting me be in the picture this time:
We love you; we’re proud of you; please get rich so that you can look after us in our old age. That’s why we had you, after all.
Here’s a birthday poem for you:
Happy birthday to Spud
You’re not quite a dud
You like Shakespeare
And have big hair
You’re a good kid, though weird*
*Seriously, what do you expect? It’s almost midnight last night and I was out on trains, eating chips, and at the theatre all day; if that isn’t good mothering, I don’t know what is. Don’t expect great poetry as well.
Happy birthday, darling boy!
PS Angry Men! Snow!