Mr B says the most important event of today is the London Derby between Tottenham Hotspur (his team) and Arsenal. I remind him, gently, that it is also The Rascal's Thursday birthday. He is suitably shamed. Mr B that is,
not The Rascal.
He does however have proximity on his side. Not that he is lucky enough to have tickets for the Big Match (though we will be searching the faces in the crowd behind the goal for friends who
do) but sitting in the living room, in his favourite armchair, in front of the TV is the Next Best Thing. Meanwhile the Birthday Boy - known to you all as Young Faris aka The Rascal - is at the Natural History Museum making the acquaintance of the dinosaurs.
We will see him tomorrow and celebrate his special day with (i) our presents and (ii) our presence.
In the local florist's shop, many hands are at work fashioning beautiful (and costly) bouquets for Mothering
Sunday. My humble request for a £3.99 balloon ("Happy 3rd Birthday") is not a particularly welcome diversion from the main business. It seems to take an unusually long time to inflate my balloon so I wander among the floral tributes reading the cards
attached. "The Best Mum in the World" is going to receive SO many flowers tomorrow. She is, indeed, a lucky woman to have so very many grateful off-spring. Whoever she is.
At home, I have a cake to make, a
knitted jumper to sew up, presents to wrap. I must also confess to Mr B that I have inadvertently arranged for the caterers who will provide the Afternoon Tea for our Golden Wedding celebrations to call to see us at 1 p.m. - just fifteen minutes after the
start of the match. He takes it on the chin, bless him. He will record the early stages of play, he says, and watch it back when our visitors have departed, as if in real time.
My cake, when finished, owes
everything to the six plastic dinosaurs prancing on top of the green icing and waltzing round the cake board - and nothing at all to any feat of imaginative cake decoration on my part. Hopefully, being a Delia Special, it will taste delicious. Which should
be all that matters, really.
My jumper, when sewn up, still looks a trifle, well, large for an Only Just Three Year Old. I dreamt about it last night and in my dream I had misread the pattern and knitted a
jumper for a 5 - 6 year old instead of a 3-4 year old. Waking in the night at some ridiculously early hour, I had to creep downstairs to check it out. I'd have never been able to go back to sleep otherwise.
The Middle of the Darling Daughters, proud mother of The Rascal, rings when they arrive home from the last of today's birthday treats, a cinema trip. Mr B and I sing a tuneful Happy Birthday. As you do. Tomorrow, we tell the Birthday Boy,
we will be there for the continuation of the celebrations. Cake with prancing dinosaurs and all.
Oh, yes, and in case you were not aware (or did not care) the London Derby ended in a 2 - 2 draw. Mr B
played it back more than once and it still ended up the same. Nobody won and nobody lost.
At least we have tomorrow to look forward to when everyone - especially our Rascal of a Birthday Boy - will be a winner.