Octogenarian

My grandmother was born in 1926.
The same year as the General Strike.
The same year as Agatha Christie's famous disappearance.
The same year as Houdini's fatally ruptured appendix.
She's the same age as The Queen and Chuck Berry.
My grandmother was born with a medical disorder called anosmia,
which is the lack of olfaction, or a loss of the sense of smell.
She's never let it bother her though.
Today, surrounded by her extended family,
she's celebrating her 80th birthday
in a village institute on the edge of the Cotswolds.
The building was donated to the village
by the owner of the 1898 Epsom Derby winner.
The horse, Jeddah, had romped home at odds of 100-1.
I arrive at the party fresh from the Humanist wedding
I was attending
on the South Downs.
It was a camping wedding.
I was up until 3am, singing songs around the campfire.
I slept in my suit.
A shower this morning had unfortunately not been an option.
I arrrive smelling like
a recently-opened packet of smokey bacon crisps.
My grandmother, for one, doesn't seem to mind.
That's one of the advantages of anosmia I suppose.