Dear Blog,
Woke up this morning expecting a congratulatory hug or a birthday kiss or at least breakfast in bed. Nothing. So I got up. No sign of any birthday cards and there was a distinct lack of piles of packages of presents. Not that I cared. Wife must have hidden them all. How childish. I didn’t search all the downstairs rooms or all the cupboards too thoroughly. Who’s bothered? I couldn’t find any evidence of cards or pressies anywhere. Wife gets up. Still no ‘Happy Birthday’. O.K.. It takes two to tango. No problem. Daughter comes down stairs for breakfast. No birthday greeting from her either. Oh yes, I get it. Conspiring together. Big joke. Typical of them. Take the Michael. Bit childish for grownups to play such games, but I don’t mind. I pretend not to notice the lack of greetings. I’ll play along. They’ll crack first. Porridge and muesli, toast, marmalade and ground coffee times two. Oh comeon now. Lighten up. It is my birthday. Not that I am too bothered. Each year I let it float over me. Others might like to make a great fuss, but I’m not like that. But I expected them to look at least as if they were conspiratorial.
Dishes done. Still no pressies appear. Not a single card either. And. Pushing it a bit now I thought, not that I was too concerned; I am a grown man after all, not a small child. Strange. No phone call from my sister or my mother. But as we only left Yorkshire last night, they must have had a quiet word with each other behind my back. Women ganging together as they are wont so to do. Mother and sister must also be in this silly little charade . Infantile. They probable know that I could not care less but are going along with the pretence to keep my wife happy. The postman gives us a miss. Not that I was particularly waiting for him. Just noticed that his van didn’t stop.
Wife goes shopping, daughter goes computering. This is now becoming ridiculous. A joke is a joke is a joke but I only have a birthday once a year and it is a long wait until the next one. Fair dooes. I suppose I should encourage their little game, go along with them and should show them some concern, give them a hint that it is time to reveal where all those parcels are hidden. But NO. I WILL NOT: they will be the first to admit that it is now a bit of a silly wheeze; a bore. The joke is now on them, not me, for taking this whole episode too far – far too far.
Early lunch because wife and daughter are running as a team in the Warwick University Relays in the afternoon. Wife says that she will give me permission to run in a mixed team if the club is short of a runner. CHINK. She’s starting to crack. So. I read the Guardian while coffeeing. Half way through Simon Hoggart’s little piece, the date catches my eye. October 29th. Saturday October 29th. Whoopsie. Sorry Wife. Sorry daughter. Thought you’d forgotten my birthday. I knew you wouldn’t have really. STILL, the conciliation for me is that I have something to look forward to tomorrow. Not that I was bothered.
Oh yes Blog, I thought I’d better tell you that your birthday card for me must have been delayed in the post. Never mind. I am sure you must have been very busy with some very important things not to get my card to me in good time. And, do keep my present until you see me next, the charges made by the postal office for heavy parcels these days, is quite ridiculous.
See You Soon.
Birthday Boy
*This is my imagination as I have never had breakfast in bed. I hate staying in bed. As a child we used to have to get up early as dad had to leave for his walk to work before 7am and no way was mum going to prepare four separate breakfasts. Working class Yorkshire brekkie means you all have your bread and toast together.
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