Happy Birthday to Me!

When I reluctantly entered this weekend, I was 30 years old. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was 31 on exit. The youngest I’ll ever be and the oldest I’ve ever been, all in one middle aged approaching moment.

I got some nice presents; perfume, a magazine subscription, deck chairs, picnic hamper and six prominently placed scabby zits on my cheeks and chin. Yes, the boobs may have sagged, the bottom may have more dimples than an avocado but I still have the sebaceous glands of a thirteen year old.

My kind friend, Wuce, helped put a plan in place to navigate me through the day as quickly as possible. Wuce, Meerkat, Poff, Accountant, Chickie and I would meet at Woodies Diner for pancakes at 10am. A visit to the Fire Station’s Open Day would follow so Wuce and I could check out the Firemen and the boys and babies could play with the Fire Engines. Finally, a yummy din dins at my favourite restaurant where I planned to gorge myself silly following my two weeks of eating rice and peas after discovering I was almost back to my full term pregnancy weight albeit without the baby.

Then Accountant upset the Birthday Girl. Following his third “I’m too lazy to fill my car up with petrol and too stupid to learn my lesson” roadside rescue in a month, and prompted by the overpowering fumes of the fuel canister he’d thoughtfully left in the back of my car, he informed me at 9.50am that he needed to fill up the aforementioned canister and return it forthwith to Brother-in-Law. A Brother-in-Law who had been plucked from the comfort of his armchair to rescue aforementioned moron from the roadside at 9.30pm the previous evening which had gone down a little something like this:

"If there's one thing I hate in this world, it's snotty kids” grumbled Brother-In-Law. Sister sniffed, mopping her crusty red nose for the 1000th time. "How's your sore throat?" she asked Brother-In-Law, concerned. "It still hurts" he confirmed miserably. "May be you should have an early night and go to bed" she suggested.

When diagnosing Chickie's 'hayfever' based on his watery eyes and sniffles, I didn't realise I was actually unleashing the toddler equivalent of the virus carrying chimp in ‘Outbreak’ upon my unsuspecting sister and her family. Now, collectively and somewhat impressively, their symptoms covered the whole range listed on the back of their Beechams Cold and Flu capsules.

Each day, feeling guiltier than the last, I rang, in the vain hope someone's condition had improved. Each day, someone mucous filled would reply, feebly, that all were stable but none were out of the woods yet.

Brother-In-Law fancied Sister's suggestion, a hot drink and bed sounded appealing. Then the phone rang. It was Accountant, on the A24, somewhere outside Steyning. Now you’re up to speed.

I had tried concealing my irritation whilst watching Accountant mosey around the house in the buff for the preceding half hour as if time and underwear were something that only applied to other people. When the fumes hit my nostrils as I got into my car, my irritation shifted to annoyance. Then he mentioned his new petrol delivery round. Annoyance got a complimentary upgrade to anger. Then the petrol canister reminded me of the time he’d left a petrol canister in the car before and me and my migraine had requested he not do it again. Then that reminded me of the time he’d left a second degree dirty nappy in the car overnight and the car had stunk like poop for a month and anger turned to resentment. Then I threw in his inability to fill up a petrol tank into my big bag of marital exasperation and I was brewing for a popping.

I did, admirably, make initial attempts to remain calm, suggesting in the most carefree tone I could fabricate, that he call Meerkat to mention we were running very late. Then I helpfully suggested he shouldn’t leave petrol cans in the car, due to the noxious gases, and queried as to whether he had any recollection of the last time I’d asked.

His reply? “SHUT UP! Just SHUT UP!”

My reply, “You’ve ruined my birthday! I don’t want to spend the day with you”

Him: “Fine. Give me the keys”

Keys duly and forcefully lobbed from driver’s side of car at Accountant’s head.

Accountant stomps to front door in a self righteous strop. I watch from the car as he tries every key in turn. Two minutes pass and each key is tried again. Further fumbling and some muttered expletives. Three minutes and the Accountant/Key fiasco is proving delightfully amusing. More futile attempts to find the one key, out of a potential four, that will open the door. Jingle Jangle. Four minutes. Finally, after demonstrating the dexterity of a cocktail sausage and illustrating my ‘gross incompetence’ point brilliantly, he finds the winning combination and scurries indoors, out of earshot of my sniggers.

The rest of the day was spent stuffing my face whilst awarding marks out of ten to the fireman's bottoms. For information purposes, the firemen with the big biceps, who effortlessly lifted Chickie in his buggy over the peripheral fence,and made me wish I was in the buggy instead, you get a 9/10. Once the judging was over, Chickie and Poff spent the afternoon going round and round and round and round on every miniature train ride at the Fire Station followed by every miniature train ride at the Fair. They still had the audacity to scream in outrage when their plans for ride number 32 were scuppered.

Where was Accountant whilst all the fun was going on - sulking at home!