Svetlana, my dear friend, it must have been my birthday itself, rather than the succeeding celebrations and remembrances.
Of course I can't remember the day itself, but what gifts and presents I received.
Born in a country and surrounded with characters and wonderful and harrowing events that any would-be writer would give his eye teeth to own.
Born with a not too ostentatious silver spoon in my little mouth.
Born of the most beautiful, intelligent and talented mother and the most splendid and outrageous father.
Surrounded by servants, for the first nine years of my life, who loved me and made my life wonderful, secure, exciting.
I didn't need special birthday presents to remember every wonderful year - every day was a wonder and an adventure.
But now, and you asked for the longest lives if possible...
Tomorrow will be my seventy-third birthday, and what would make me so happy would be for me to go home.
So far, my dear friend, I am still in Hospital, awaiting discharge.
Maybe it would sound better if I were to say, "I'm waiting to be discharged."
(Doesn't sound so messy!)