It was my thirty-sixth birthday on Saturday and Grumpy went out of his way to make it a special day, saying things like, "Happy birthday, old bag" and, "Hoo! On the downhill slide to forty now." Also, although we had promised no birthday or Christmas presents this year, he couldn't help going out and buying me a kit full of accessories for my drill, which I spent the afternoon cooing over. Because that's the kind of girl I am. That is, I like to coo.
Anyway, this birthday marked a most momentous and solemn occasion in my life. It was the first year that I did not get a phone call from my grandmother on the 16th of December with the following conversation ensuing:
Don Mary: "Happy birthday, darling."
HB: "Thank you, Don Mary, but my birthday is tomorrow."
Don Mary: "Oh, damn it all! The 17th! But you were due on the 16th! Oh, I remember it. There we were all packed up to leave Kalgoorlie and come to Adelaide to see your mother and father and we hadn't had any word yet. I was pacing around getting all het up and Joyce Martin* said to me, 'Now, Don Mary, how many babies have you had? You know they never come on time.' And I said, 'Yes, but this one is different**.' And then just as we were about to leave the telegram arrived to tell us you were here."
HB: "So I'll talk to you tomorrow?"
Don Mary: "Of course, sweetheart."
Of course, every year on the 17th she never has bothered ringing. This year she rang on the 15th to tell me she knew my birthday was on the 17th. Very tricky.
*Not her real name, naturally.
** And how.
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