Monday was my birthday. Hip-hip hoooray! One more year until the dreaded big four zero. Gulp. Need to be successful by then or at least semi-retired. Hmmm could be tricky. No chance of a scout catching me at the mo and turning me into the oldest proffessional footballer in Australia, due to my girlie rib injury. Which means I've even less time. Right, let's forget footie and think of something else. There's always the guitar. Problem there is my tuner is hidden in one of the five hundred boxes of shipping in the garage that arrived four weeks ago. Time I find that, I'll be well past it. Need new strings as well. Then there's the time factor too. What with working, kids and barbequeing there's barely a moment to watch Setanta.Anyway, as I say, the week started off well with my birthday. It was on a Monday, as most weeks tend to begin that way. Half thought I should take the day off, partly to avoid any possibility that I might be given a cake ceremony at work. These are well embarrassing from what I've seen so far. As twenty zombie over-qualified, under acheiving scientists stare blankly at a large round chocolate cake as if they're expecting it to get up and dance but know as a matter of fact it won't, the knife is raised by the red faced birthday boy or girl and my boss jovially bellows the instructions "you've got to cut that in 23 and a half equal pieces you know, mate." To which everyone continues to stare blankly. The trembling cake cutter invariably makes a complete dogs dinner of it and the cake is passed round solemnly in a crumbling mess. The boss then tries a joke like "who saw the golf at the weekend?" to which no-one replies. This witty repartee goes on for around thirty minutes, covering questions from most sports, TV programmes, current affairs and politics before he announces "Well that was great. Happy birthday once again, blah blah." Everyone then moves slowly and silently out of the room. So, I'd quickly come to the conclusion that there's no way I'm suffering that humiliation on my birthday - party pooper or not. Which you might think is sound and you'd do the same or perhaps you think it's a most miserable approach to take. In either case that's your plate of onions. After all, it's my birthday not yours, so there. Don't think it's a soft option, it's a blooming hard job trying to avoid your boss and fellow colleagues all day who might just spring the whole cake thing on you at any moment. I was on tenderhooks throughout, (apart from a very nice lunch with Jenny in Balmain - Singapore noodles are tops) like a paranoid bunny about to face the firing squad but not sure just quite when. A surge of relief overwhelmed me at quarter to four as I knew I was safe - some people leave at four, cake ceremenoy takes at least twenty minutes. Logic innit?
Skipping home with a lah de dah de dah I arrive to a super spread prepared by the kids - think Jenny might have helped too. There was authentic British cuisine - caramel wafers, Tunnock's teacakes, wotsits, twiglets and those shrimp crisp things, can't remember what you call them but you know the ones I mean. They sort of melt in your mouth after about half an hour then you wonder if it was actually a crisp you'd popped or a lump of fishy polystyrene. Grillicious.
My right hand chef man, William, disclosed his secret of making sprinkle bread - namely "take a bit of bread, dad, put butter on it and then throw on lots and lots and lots of sprinkles. " He paused to think if there was anything else. Then concluded, "then you can eat it". After a proper cake cutting and eating event, we decided it was time for a bit of kitchen dancing. Katy took over as resident DJ. She's a smart girl and insised she put on music daddy liked i.e none of that Mika or High school musical rubbish that's going round and round my head these days. No, no. She put on the all time best band in the world ever, The Cult. What a girl. Only eight as well, tremendous potential. All started off decorously, William and Tom headbanging, Jenny hopping from toe to toe and me swinging Katy around, highland dancing stylee. Fantastic. I then dimmed the light slightly and awaited the next track. "I'll just turn it up a bit", said Katy. "Good idea!" I encouraged as we waited with anticipation in the darkened room. What should come on but She Sells Sanctuary (Howling mix). Ya beauty! For those shamefully not aware of this musical masterpiece from 1985, it starts off with a pack of wolves howling at the top of their voices. A spooky silence enveloped the room as the wolves howled up. I looked at Tom who had his head thrown back, mouth wide open. He was at that brief silent stage of screaming where babies transfer all their energy to their tonsils. It only lasts a millisecond or two whilst you consider if they're actually alive but then all senses meet at the tonsil interchange. Boy, can they let rip. Screamed the whole place down, he did, bawling his eyes out. Despite desperate pleas from the birthday dad to calm down and assurances that "it'll be the heavy metal drum beat in a minute, son", before I knew it The Cult had rudely been thrown off and replaced by...wait for it...blooming Mickey Mousey Mika. Disaster.
Got some great presents, mind you. An inflatable boat from the kids for the swimming pool - aye, aye captain; Kings of Leon CD; a handy travel clock (which I'm going to set to UK time to confuse everyone) and joy o' joys, a Sat nav system for my car. Not that I needed one of course, as I have a masterly sniffer dog instinct for getting aorund places. Especially in the dark. Just ask Jenny, hmm and my boss and hmmm Derek and, well a few others. That's not the point. It's a family thing, isn't it, Sat nav? Everyone's got one these days. I'll never be late or lost again! Hurrah!
It was only on my third lap round the block as I searched for Tarun's house that I realised one of the minor flaws with sat nav. You need to know where you want to go. It's true. Typing in "My mate Tarun's house" just doesn't work. It's blooming useless if you don't know the address. I was sure I knew the way there - I'd passed it once for the first time only four weeks ago. And with a memory like mine, how could I possibly not find it? Running over thirty five minutes late, with the sun sinking rapidly and Tom showing signs of repetitive scenery boredom, I bit the bullet and went as low as a man can possibly go. I pulled in and called Tarun for directions. Yep. It was that bad. As I looked out the passenger window, I could see him waving and grinning at me from his living room window whilst politely enquiring why I'd driven past three times already. I emphatically switched the sat nav off and came to one clear conclusion. I must be getting old.
Still, it's not been a bad week. Avoided the cake at work, Diego didn't hammer us - a very respectable one-nil defeat to the Argies and I've discovered my new sport. Rowing.
There's a thought. That Steven Redgreave geezer. He must've been about forty when he won twenty olympic medals.I could do that. And I've got more hair than him.
Maybe I'll be a success after all.
