In January 1962, when I was the author of one and a half unperformed plays, I attended a student production of 'The Birthday Party' at the Victoria Rooms in Bristol. Just before it began, I realised that Harold Pinter was sitting in front of me.

Abby touched her palm to my cheek. "You know what, Mr. Maddox?"
"What, baby?"
Her expression turned serious.
"In another life, I could love you."
I watched her for a moment, staring into her glassed over eyes. She was drunk, but just for a moment it didn't seem wrong to pretend that she meant it.
"I might love you in this one.

We wanted it to be very kid-like and birthday party-ish.

My son called his auntie yesterday and invited her to his birthday party. Now she can't come.

Nicole Richie invited me to her birthday party, and it was at Michael Jackson's Neverland!

It has always been a standing joke in the family that I've never been invited to the queen's birthday party, what with us being born on the same day, never thinking it would actually come true.