It’s my birthday tomorrow, and I’ve never been so panicked in my life. I had luxurious plans of waking late, drinking hard and eventually stumbling down to my local to be showered in flowing amber gifts; alas, it seems these messy plans have been washed down the sink. Females are organising me.
One of my friends wants me to celebrate my extended existence by going to her place for fruity cocktails and even fruitier conversation. Today I sprung another making surprise party plans. A third has prepared a day brief for me which would have been fit for desert storm.
My Granddad, Johnny, lost his birth details in a fire and as such had no idea when he was born. It was grand. One day every year the old boy would spring up, claim that ‘today was the day!’ and get sodding drunk. My family are epic organisers, and it infuriated them to see Johnny sneak a birthday past them without so much as the baking of a cake or the blowing of a candle.
So here’s the plan – everyone can choose their own birthday. The indulgent amongst us can pick a day months in advance and allow the organisation of good-willed friends to overwhelm them. Me? I’ll enjoy a sneaky day off, void of any preparation or presents. And if anyone has a problem with it, I’ll tell them to piss of. It’s my birthday.
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1 comment:
pure gold!
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