Occasional Scribbles

It was my birthday yesterday.  It was absolutely rotten.  The worst birthday I have had in ages.  My birthday is part of a trio of birthdays all in a row in August, starting with my mothers on the 18th, my father’s on the 19th and mine on the 20th.

The Teen and I toodled down to my family on my mother’s to celebrate with her and that was fine. I knew we were invited to my sisters for a joint birthday celebration on my father’s and so I was happily surprised when we also went out unexpectedly for a birthday supper on my mother’s birthday at an Italian restaurant.  A meal which turned out to be quite amusing.  The folks hadn’t been to the restaurant before and wanted to check it out to see if it might be any good for other occasions and outings with friends.

La Dolce Vita was inside what used to be a hotel so it was a little strange in it’s decor of dark oak beams, a large open fireplace and a grand piano where a little man was playing a variety of music; Scott Joplin and popular songs like ‘My way’ and ‘You must remember this’ from Casablanca and so on.  The waiters were all Italian and as soon as we arrived one of them went into a practiced speel to sell us a cocktail before we had  even sat down.  This annoyed my father immediately as he doesn’t like that sort of behaviour.  Mum who was in birthday mood thought the pink mixture looked rather nice but was cut off by Dad who pointed out that we were being pushed into buying something we didn’t want.  He asked for the menu in a voice that commanded obedience from the overly familiar and chatty waiter, who eventually got the message that his sales pitch was going to be wasted on us.  

The waiter, instead of bringing the menu, presented us with an enormous wooden board with a gigantic piece of raw beef and a selection of large raw ravioli.  This turned out to be the specials board, and he explained that the ravioli could be stuffed with either the beef or goats cheese and herbs.  It was rather a peculiar thing to do really but we waved him away again and eventually got our menus and more importantly a bottle of wine ordered, since by now we were desperate for a drink.  The wine arrived and my father noticed with annoyance that the wine glasses were vast.  You could probably fit a whole bottle into each glass.

“They do this to make you drink more, you know,” said Dad, “It’s quite disgraceful; there’s probably over a quarter of a bottle in your glass there” he said pointing to mine.  He checked the remainder of the bottle, lifting it out of it’s silver bucket and sure enough, the bottle was all but empty having served only the three of us, with The Teen having a Coke.  Personally I was quite delighted, the more the better as far as I was concerned and I thought Dad could do with a good drink to lighten his mood too.

We ordered our meal and sat back with our wine, and sat back with our wine some more.  A long time later,  Dad was looking at his watch and noting that we’d sat there for an hour with no sign of any food and The Teen, Mum and I exchanged a quick look, eyebrows raised in anticipation of further grumblings from Dad.  He had ordered mussels in a wine sauce as a starter and Mum, The Teen and I, Palma ham and melon.  Relieved when it eventually arrived, we tucked in.  After a few minutes of ‘ums’ and ‘aahs’ and ‘delicious ham’ and so on, I turned to look at Dad, on my right.  His expression was doubtful.  “It’s no good, it really isn’t, this’ll have to go back, I’m afraid.”  “What’s up?”, I asked.  “It’s these Mussels, look at them” he exclaimed in outrage.  I peered over at the plate of black creatures which I would never eat, if you paid me a million pounds, and asked what was wrong.  “They’re tiny, totally over cooked, in fact, I’d say they’ve been reheated a dozen times already!  Completely unaceptable.”  “Oh, I see, that’s not very good then.  What a shame.” I say concerned that the meal is turning out to be a disaster.

We managed to get the waiter’s attention with difficulty as he was by now, keeping fairly clear of us but eventually, The Teen practically grabbed him by his apron and he took one look at the Mussels, one look at Dad’s face and whipped them away before a word could be uttered.  The boss’s wife appeared and apologised profusely, realising quite rightly that the offending Mussels weren’t fit for consumption and brought another plate of Palma ham for him.

The rest of the meal went very well and we all had superb food after that, thank goodness.  After a bit more to drink Dad’s initial mood improved and we drank Mum’s health and a toast to all our birthdays and by the time we left, Mum was giggling about something or other which set the rest of us off and we had a jolly ride home feeling the evening turned out ok in the end.

On to the next birthday, Dad’s which also went well.  We had a superb meal at my sisters and all the family were there, my neice and her new husband, my other neice, who came down from London especially and my nephews who were on holiday from school, made up a large party.  We had lots to drink, lots to eat and opened all our presents together.  We arrived home absolutely stuffed to the gills.

I always spend my birthday with The Other.  He never acompanies me to see the folks (and isn’t well enough to travel nowadays) and so I always return to celebrate it with him.  I left after breakfast, leaving The Teen to stay and do another few days work with his grand parents and got home at lunch time.  The Other hears me arrive and drags himself out of bed.  He looks awful and I am disappointed that he is clearly ill.  He asks after the family and the birthdays.  He asks after The Teen.  He tells me that he is feeling really bad as the abcess that flares up frequently, in his tooth, is agony and he has run out of anti biotics.  I feel disapointed at this, selfishly.  I unpack all my bags, the marrow, tomatoes, blackberries and eggs from the folks’ garden and a bottle of wine kindly given me by Dad to celebrate my birthday.  I am by this time wondering why The Other hasn’t wished me happy birthday or got my presents for me to open.  I go outside to check that he hasn’t forgotten to feed the chickens and when I come back in, he is no where to be seen.  Vanished, gone, just like that.  I’m a bit peed off that he has totally ignored the fact that it is my birthday and wonder if he has got muddled up and maybe thinks it was the day before or something. He gets muddled up quite often, so I go upstairs to see what’s going on.

He is in bed.  “Ahem, you do realise it’s my birthday today do you?” I ask with annoyance, feeling only slightly guilty that he is ill – again.

He turns over to face me.  “Yea I do, it’s just that i feel so ill.  Can we cancel it and have it tomorrow?” he asks.  I turn away and walk downstairs.  I’m really fed up.  You can’t cancel a birthday, it isn’t the same to change it to another day, it doesn’t work like that.  I didn’t need to bother to come home so early.  “You could have rung me and told me you weren’t fit company for God’s sake.” I complain over my shoulder as I go back downstairs.

I half heartedly thought about calling a friend for a drink later, but I wasn’t in any mood for company by then .  The Teen rang later to see if I had got home safely and asked if his father had given me my presents.  I explained the situation and made out that it really didn’t matter and that he would probably sort things out the next day.  The Teen was hopeful, suggesting that maybe The Other would bring my presents down later on.  I half thought he would myself but he didn’t.  I stayed up late.  I couldn’t face going upstairs again and I when I eventually went to bed, I ignored The Other.

I always hate my birthday anyway.