Dad and I almost share a birthday.
As Mother reminds me every year, "You were two weeks late. And as if that wasn't bad enough, when you did finally decide to arrive, you made y'father burn his sausages."
For the past couple of years, Dad and I have celebrated together. In other words, the Aged Ps have come to stay at Hotel Wilson and I have spent my birthday cooking, washing and cleaning while they sit, huddled on the sofa and Mother bemoans the fact that it's too cold or too hot and how much she hates the drive from east to west and how the daffodils are much better in Kent.
This year I have decided not to invite them.
I do ring Dad on his birthday, though, to wish him well.
"Hi, Dad! Happy Birthday! Hope you've had a good day?"
"No, he hasn't actually," says Mother.
"Oh."
"He hasn't had many cards. As usual my useless brother didn't send him one. And your present hasn't arrived. And we haven't done anything special at all."
"Well, I'm sorry about that, Dad. I ordered it a week ago so--"
"It's OK, love," says Dad. "I'm sure it's on its way."
"Humpf," says Mother. "Y'sister sent him a very nice parcel. Of things. More than one present in actual fact. Including a very useful book about how to cook for a low-cholesterol diet. I don't suppose you even knew that y'father has high cholesterol--?"
"Yes. I did. So, that was a good idea. Anyway, I hope you got my card at least, Dad?"
"Yes," he chortles. "Very funny."
Dad and I compete every year to find each other the silliest card. This year I found a cartoon of a grandfather and grandson contemplating a birthday cake with the child saying "I want a Wii" and the old man responding, "Me too, this coffee's gone right through me." (Well, it appeals to our sense of humour, anyway. . .)
"All I can say is, wait till you get your card!" Dad adds mischievously.
"Ha!" says Mother with an evil cackle. "I don't suppose you'll like it."
"I can't wait," I say.
Small Boy is up at six on my birthday. He is almost as excited about me turning forty-two as he was about turning eleven.
"Time for your presents and cards!" he trills, bouncing into bed with me.
"Uh? Oh - lovely. Go and get your sister," I mutter, one eye open.
Daughter shuffles in groaning. "I hate mornings. And I hate you." I think this last comment is directed at her brother, though I couldn't be sure. "Here," she says, giving me a small packet of fudge.
"Thank you, darling."
"I haven't got you anything," says Small Boy. "But you've got loads anyway. Open this card! It's from Grandma and Grandpa. I can tell cos I can't read the writing."
I steel myself for the contents.
It is a cartoon of a woman in curlers, looking at her reflection and crying: "Oh no! It's Mother!"
Inside Dad has put a row of exclamation marks and Mother has written: "I don't think this is true. Y'father chose it."
"What does it mean?" asks Small Boy.
Daughter curls her lip. "It's not very nice. Why did they choose it?"
"Oh, it's revenge," I say. "For Grandpa burning his sausages forty-two years ago . . ."
As Mother reminds me every year, "You were two weeks late. And as if that wasn't bad enough, when you did finally decide to arrive, you made y'father burn his sausages."
For the past couple of years, Dad and I have celebrated together. In other words, the Aged Ps have come to stay at Hotel Wilson and I have spent my birthday cooking, washing and cleaning while they sit, huddled on the sofa and Mother bemoans the fact that it's too cold or too hot and how much she hates the drive from east to west and how the daffodils are much better in Kent.
This year I have decided not to invite them.
I do ring Dad on his birthday, though, to wish him well.
"Hi, Dad! Happy Birthday! Hope you've had a good day?"
"No, he hasn't actually," says Mother.
"Oh."
"He hasn't had many cards. As usual my useless brother didn't send him one. And your present hasn't arrived. And we haven't done anything special at all."
"Well, I'm sorry about that, Dad. I ordered it a week ago so--"
"It's OK, love," says Dad. "I'm sure it's on its way."
"Humpf," says Mother. "Y'sister sent him a very nice parcel. Of things. More than one present in actual fact. Including a very useful book about how to cook for a low-cholesterol diet. I don't suppose you even knew that y'father has high cholesterol--?"
"Yes. I did. So, that was a good idea. Anyway, I hope you got my card at least, Dad?"
"Yes," he chortles. "Very funny."
Dad and I compete every year to find each other the silliest card. This year I found a cartoon of a grandfather and grandson contemplating a birthday cake with the child saying "I want a Wii" and the old man responding, "Me too, this coffee's gone right through me." (Well, it appeals to our sense of humour, anyway. . .)
"All I can say is, wait till you get your card!" Dad adds mischievously.
"Ha!" says Mother with an evil cackle. "I don't suppose you'll like it."
"I can't wait," I say.
Small Boy is up at six on my birthday. He is almost as excited about me turning forty-two as he was about turning eleven.
"Time for your presents and cards!" he trills, bouncing into bed with me.
"Uh? Oh - lovely. Go and get your sister," I mutter, one eye open.
Daughter shuffles in groaning. "I hate mornings. And I hate you." I think this last comment is directed at her brother, though I couldn't be sure. "Here," she says, giving me a small packet of fudge.
"Thank you, darling."
"I haven't got you anything," says Small Boy. "But you've got loads anyway. Open this card! It's from Grandma and Grandpa. I can tell cos I can't read the writing."
I steel myself for the contents.
It is a cartoon of a woman in curlers, looking at her reflection and crying: "Oh no! It's Mother!"
Inside Dad has put a row of exclamation marks and Mother has written: "I don't think this is true. Y'father chose it."
"What does it mean?" asks Small Boy.
Daughter curls her lip. "It's not very nice. Why did they choose it?"
"Oh, it's revenge," I say. "For Grandpa burning his sausages forty-two years ago . . ."
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