Human narcissism reached a new level when we decided that the day we were born — and the very same day every year thereafter — ought to be declared a self-proclaimed special occasion, creatively titled our Birthday.
A day upon which we may demand cake, feel smug about a Facebook wall full of performative well-wishes, and pressure our friends into making sacrifices as though we were benevolent deities personally responsible for saving the human race from Brexit, feminism, and hurricanes.
You think people really care?
Then ask yourself why the birthday song sounds like a deranged cult chant and consists of only four bloody words.
Thanks to extensive commercial exploitation, elaborate celebration of this day is now the norm.
And the seemingly complex — but in truth rather simple — human mind has been thoroughly convinced that lavish parties and expensive gifts are tokens of profound, undying love.
In other words, if you wish to know how loved you truly are, take your birthday presents to a pawn shop and see what they fetch.
Love, apparently, is now a measurable commodity.
Two weeks before my birthday this year, someone asked me,
“What do you want for your birthday?”
(Which, by the way, is perhaps the most romantic question one can ask a girl—a straightforward invitation to please extort me. I adore it.)
“Picnic by a castle,” I replied, while looking at him as though my entire world might collapse into a thousand glittering pieces should this request go unmet.
So, naturally—
It did.
Like something out of a film, it did.
I bloody love birthdays.
We drove to Chantilly that beautiful morning with a picnic basket full of food and drinks at our feet. I was so excited I spent the entire journey smiling and singing like an overenthusiastic child on Christmas morning.
By now, you should know that I value experiences far more than material possessions. So a birthday like this was, to me, roughly equivalent to being trapped in a lift with James McAvoy, a genuine pinch-me moment in heaven.
Château de Chantilly was originally the estate of the illustrious French noble house of Montmorency, before later being rebuilt by the Duke of Aumale, son of the last king of France.
A passionate collector of rare books and paintings, the Duke amassed a collection so remarkable that the château’s Reading Room now houses the second-largest library in France.
With works by Raphael, Titian, and Sandro Botticelli, the art gallery is a feast for the eyes; while the princely suites—reception halls, sitting rooms, music rooms, salons, offices, and bedrooms—offer a glimpse into the sort of life one imagines involved an awful lot of velvet and very little inconvenience.
I would gladly trade a moment with James McAvoy for the chance to live there, if only for a day.
This estate is a 115-hectare playground, complete with gardens more akin to a private park, woodland grounds, and stables so grand they could easily pass for a miniature château of their own.
The Great Stables was a joy.
Ponies, horses, an equestrian show… all that remained was a great big cake piled indecently high with Chantilly cream.
All hail the narcissistic champions of birthdays.
With love x