It is always a difficult moment for me when someone at the club points out that it is my birthday, which unfortunately it will be in a few short days. I ask you, who wants to be reminded that one is staring at the precipice, or as my late father put it, the coal chute to oblivion?
Some club mems become coy about their blasted day in the sun, dropping little reminders that the big moment is almost upon us and that they would not be incredibly annoyed at being stood a drink or two, all the while being taken aback as it were.
If the truth be told, I don’t mind raising a drink for others, but when it is my turn, it makes me think of the yawning grave in store for me. I would happily tread along, having my five martinis a day and chatting with friends at the club without a care in the world, if not for being brought up short every year over this damned anniversary. It is then that I am reminded of my churlish knee, my ticking liver time bomb, the slight drooling when I am overly happy, and of course the complete lack of second chances.
For instance, I will never be able to undo the embarrassment I inflicted on my parents at my school’s Winter Sports Day. Every February we jammy-faced students were required to jump around the large gym, bouncing off wooden horses, climbing ropes and enduring tedious displays by the school military band.
I had not been feeling at all well throughout the week as I had been made to finish my fish-eyes- and-glue dessert for five days running by a master who had it in for me. It was not usually mandatory to finish school desserts. I think the teacher was still a touch bitter because when he strapped me the previous week for gross cheek, I had the temerity to pull my hand away at the last moment and he flogged his own thigh. Twice. Not good.
So I was almost poisoned by the time the Friday night festivities arrived. To make matters worse, I was the first boy in the opening display to run up, jump onto the springboard, land on my shoulders and then fling myself forward, completing a flip and landing lightly on the balls of my feet. On the night in question within the darkened gym, a single spotlight landed on me as I began my run-up. I heard my father’s loud whisper, “Do your stuff, my boy,” as I sprinted by the front row, jumped onto the waiting springboard and soared towards the wooded horse.
Now I mentioned I had not been feeling 100 per cent because of the psychotic teacher and the nasty tapioca pudding, so I should have been in the school hospital with Matron, not launching myself into space. For when I landed on the horse and bent my body, I broke wind, and decidedly so. It was like a starter’s pistol in a library, with alarmed people jumping to their feet. It was the sort of sound that Genghis Khan might have made during the excitement of battle after a large meal of raw sheep.
There was no question who was responsible for the outrageous noise. An eerie silence fell over the gym, followed by roars of laughter, which made my cheeks turn crimson. The headmaster’s wife fainted, taking down several members of the school’s board of governors with her. I briefly saw my parents making their way to the exit with winter coats over their heads as I headed at great speed for the locker room with more rumblings coming from below my elastic belt.
I have never lived it down, and to this day more than 60 years later, still extant school mates never fail to ask, “How are you feeling, Smythe-Brown?” with much elderly giggling. Bah! Could have happened to anyone. But still I should have tried again the following year but I never did, which I regret.
Nevertheless my wife and ungrateful children always make a to-do on my birth date and I am made to stand up at the family table to say a few words. My wife understands that the appalling children are only there for the cake (even though they are in their 40s and 50s), so she asks me to make a short speech before the sugar colossus as there might be no one remaining otherwise. I am usually just getting to the key part of my well-fashioned chat when one of the blisters says sotto voce, “Come along, Dad, we’re hungry.” Blast and damnation if I don’t lose my train of thought and have to return to my seat muttering madly, as the shark-like offspring attack the bloody cake. No respect. So you see I would rather give the whole thing a miss if you don’t mind.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2015
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