My reason for mentioning it is that I realised only today
(or it might have been yesterday – the numbers on birthday cards grow in
indirect proportion to the number of brain cells capable of storing short term
memory) that I don’t remember ever having had a birthday party at any time in
my life. Is that unusual? I don’t know.
I went to one once, at around age 10. The recipient was
Janice Turner who lived in Friar’s Road, and the only thing I remember about it
was knocking something off the table and feeling feverishly embarrassed. I
suppose the fact that it was the one and only birthday party I ever attended suggests
that such celebrations were much less common then than they are now. Or maybe I
was known as the kid who knocks things off tables and was therefore persona non
grata. Or it could have been the fact that I was a fat slob in my
pre-adolescent period and fat kids didn’t get invited to things. I never knew
and I never shall.
And come to think of it, the only childhood birthday I
remember at all was the one when I got home from school and was given a parcel
sent by my older brother. That was at around the same age, and the parcel
contained a set of lights for my bike. I remember feeling very proud of my
acquisition because not every kid had lights for his or her bike. In fact, not
every kid even had a bike. The fact that my bike had come second hand was of no
consequence back then because I lived on the wrong side of the tracks and
having a bike made you a bit special. I expect I’d get mugged for it these
days, or maybe not since it was second hand.
I do vaguely remember one other birthday when I was much
older. The woman I was living with offered to take me out for a meal to
celebrate the occasion, but I declined and she became very cross. There were
several reasons why I declined, but I don’t think I want to elucidate further
because I’ve done quite enough confessing for one week. And I wouldn’t want
people thinking ill of me on the eve of my birthday, would I?
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