So. I had a birthday last week. I am now officially SO OLD that if you listen closely you can hear my joints playing the Windows 95 startup sound every time I stand up. Like, we are DEEP into “mysteriously injure yourself while sleeping” territory. I swear I hit a new age bracket and immediately my skeleton filed for divorce.

But anyway — the day itself.

Me and my partner went to Southampton (city motto: “At Least We’re Not Portsmouth”) and we did the most delightfully unhinged thing imaginable: we shared a gigantic platter of sausages from the little German food bar. I’m talking a literal flight of sausages. A bouquet of bratwurst. A meat rainbow. A wurst-based sampler of the Fatherland. Every sausage had its own vibe — spicy, smoky, “why does this taste like Christmas?”, “oh god this one bites back.” It was glorious. I felt like some kind of Teutonic meat baron.

Then we went across the road to The Dark Arts Potions Bar, which bills itself as a “dark magic themed cocktail bar and escape room,” and unfortunately delivered mostly on the “dark” part, and less on the “fun” or “magic” part.

The host — who, to be fair, was clearly trying his best — was doing this wizard character like he was auditioning for a community theatre production of Dumbledore’s Nervous Breakdown. Just relentless. Overbearing. Talking over us. Narrating our existence. Sir, please. I simply want to drink and solve puzzles in peace, not be monologued at like I'm on the receiving end of a Skyrim side quest.

We were seated in a corner so dark it felt like a punishment. Like a medieval oubliette but with cocktails. They brought over a gigantic puzzle crate — basically a portable escape room — and honestly? It was cool! The puzzles were fun! Except… again… COULD. NOT. SEE. There were moments where I swear I was trying to assemble clues by echolocation. Half the challenge wasn’t the puzzle design, it was trying not to accidentally drink the UV flashlight instead of my cocktail.

But speaking of cocktails — OH. MY. GOD.

They were phenomenal.
Unhinged in all the right ways.
I was nourished.

We’re talking sparklers shooting out like I’d just won a low-budget Eurovision. Cocktails you have to mix yourself and they start fizzing like a Victorian science experiment about to explode. Drinks served in upside-down glasses that forced you to drink like a little goth bat. Drinks that looked like they were brewed by a cryptid. Drinks that tasted like plot twists.

The cocktails alone salvaged the night from “oh god why is Merlin breathing down my neck” to “okay fine this rules.”

Then my partner gave me presents because they are wonderful and also enablers of my book hoarding tendencies. I got:

- A book on Japanese mythology and folklore (hello, new hyperfixation)
- A collection of classic ghost stories (Victorian spookiness, inject it directly)
- An Elphaba keychain from the Wicked movie (gay rights)

And honestly? It was a good birthday. Quieter, yeah. More low-key. More “I am old and tired and crave warmth and beverages” than the usual “gather the queer coven and descend upon a bar like a gremlin parade.”

But last year’s birthday was the last time I saw one of my closest friends alive, before he took his life at Christmas. And… yeah. The idea of doing something big and festive and loud this year felt wrong in a way my bones understood before I did. So a quieter birthday, with food and puzzles and cocktails and a partner who loves me… that felt right.

So here I am: one year older, one year creakier, one year more convinced that birthdays should always include absurd drinks and meat platters.

If this is aging, then whatever — pass me another sausage and a cocktail that glows in the dark. I'm going down fabulously.