Oh, dear, dear me! Another Epic Fail today. One, indeed, easily eclipsing all the others…
Early morning and I have
just rolled out of bed, still half asleep. From the Depths of Downstairs, Mr B summons me. Down I go, a bit out of sorts because I like to follow a particular early morning routine involving (i) putting the kettle on; (ii) dispensing Mr B’s morning medication;
(iii) retrieving the newspaper from the doormat; (iv) pulling the curtains; (v) making cups of coffee; (vi) waking Mr B with aforesaid cup of coffee. In that order. Yes, it is very sad, but there you are. Having to supply Mr B with coffee before I’ve
dispensed the medication, pulled the curtains and rescued the newspaper leaves me feeling quite discombobulated.
We are sitting side by side, mugs of coffee in
our hands, when Mr B enquires, just a trifle plaintively: “Are there any cards for me?” Which is when I remember it is his birthday…
I have forgotten? Did I not trail around town yesterday in search of appropriate presents for the Man Who Has (Almost) Everything? How long did I spend in the kitchen yesterday afternoon baking, icing and decorating his birthday cake? How did this happen?
And will Mr B ever forgive me?
As regular readers know, Mr B professes himself completely unbothered by the Birthday Business. It’s only to humour me, he
insists, that he agrees to celebrate the Day of his Birth at all. Until, that is, today - when it seemed as if I had forgotten. Maybe, just maybe, he secretly enjoys the attention?
Obviously after an Epic Fail on such a momentous scale, you can probably imagine that I spend the rest of the day over-compensating. Fortunately I have help in the splendid form of the members of our Nomination Whist Group who are almost as determined
as I am that Mr B should enjoy his birthday. Because I am nothing if not honest, I tell everyone about my Epic Fail - which makes them all laugh. Well, everyone except Mr B, who doubtless thinks a little more sympathy for the Birthday Boy is called for.
Ted does the honours with the bottle of fizz, sending the cork shooting off into the garden with a most satisfactory “pop!” We toast Mr B and I ponder aloud on
whether imbibing some Sparkly Stuff will make me play any better. Several people nod, remembering my dismal run of scores at the end of last term though nobody is unkind enough to comment that I really couldn’t do much worse.
Whether it is the fizz or something else altogether, I win the first game on my table with a pretty fine 131 points. Mr B wins on his table, too, scoring 144 points. Anyone would think it’s his
At half-time, along with mugs of tea, coffee and plates of biscuits, I produce the cake, adorned with candles and we all sing Happy Birthday.
“Lovely cake!” everyone comments, loyally. Mr B, however, doesn’t seem so impressed, turning down a piece of cake but eating two or three of the chocolate truffles with which it is decorated. Ah, well, what’s the use of a birthday,
if you can’t do what you like? as my dear Dad always used to say.
Happy birthday, dear Mr B. I hope, despite my False Start, you have enjoyed your special
day. I am so very sorry I (momentarily) forgot.
What’s that you’re saying?
“Can’t get the wives these days!”