For such a misanthrope, I got a large number of birthday cards and messages offering me congratulations. I’m not exactly sure what I was being congratulated for. Shouldn’t congratulations more aptly follow some big success or achievement? As far as I can see, I have achieved very little beyond sitting and here and existing for the last 31 years. It’s hardly some great feat of humanity; anyone could do that, given the appropriate amount of time. It certainly doesn’t seem a triumph remarkable enough to justify congratulations. You other humans are weird. Don’t get me wrong, you’re nice – but still very weird (although having said that, my hypochondriac nature constantly reminds me that each passing year might possibly be my last; and in the face of such pessimism, I suppose survival does seem like some sort of personal achievement. So on balance, maybe humans are actually cleverer than I give them credit for).
I went for a Sunday dinner with my mom (as per every Sunday). We went to the pub we’d been to before in this entry here. Rather than being desolate like last time, there was a christening party on.
My mom asked for her usual child’s portion, but the girl behind the bar said they could only be sold to Under 12’s and refused to let her order it, literally forcing her to wastefully buy an adult’s meal. To be honest, I thought this was a bit mean. It was perfectly acceptable for my Mom to buy a child’s portion the last time we visited the same pub; in fact I have previously documented the evidence of it here (though I foolishly neglected to mention the name of the establishment, so have probably inadvertently waivered any legal impression on the matter). This irritation was confounded by the fact that due to the christening party, we weren’t even allowed to eat in the dining area. We collected our carvery (which astonishingly had more miserly meat portions than last time) and were banished to the bar to eat, carrying our plates through the restaurant bit like we were shameful outsiders, collecting rations from a soup kitchen. It seemed short-sighted being so uncompromising not allowing my mother to buy a child’s portion, when we were fully expected to accept such a compromised service. We had to eat our meal from a small bar table in the corner of the room, tucked behind the pool table.
Although lacking the luxury of space, initially it wasn’t so bad; at least until some children from the christening party decided they want to play pool. I was literally trying to eat my meal, whilst having to duck from left to right whenever they needed to take particular shots at the table. At one point, I was balancing some cauliflower on my folk to be interrupted by a pool ball which had shot off the table and clattered at my feet. This made my mom jump a little, and in her shock, she accidentally spat two small bits of cabbage across the table. Honestly, the way I was trying to traverse my plate away from all that flying debris, I almost thought I was playing the vintage arcade game ‘Asteroids’ .
Please don’t get me wrong, I am not moaning or blaming my mom for any of this farcical meal, nor am I trying to chastise her for a bit of flying cabbage. Having gone through all the excruciating pain of childbirth 31 years ago today for the benefit of my very being, this would be very disrespectful to say about her. Believe me - I really was a fat little git too, and the fact that she would have gone through all that pain to squeeze me out really does seem like a genuinely humbling achievement. Surely it is more of an achievement than the one we were actually celebrating, which has essentially consisted of little more than managing to breathe for 31 years. Yet my mother didn’t even get a single, solitary gift, card or message. All she has been rewarded with is a seemingly personal and facetious grumble on a blog about table manners by her brattish 31-year old son. We certainly live in an unjust world.
I would like to conclude this entry by redressing the balance a little. Obviously I cannot exactly ‘congratulate’ my mother for having me (how vain, assumptive and egotistical a declaration would it seem, saying “Hey, congratulations! You gave birth to ME of all of all people, you should be very proud!”), but congratulate her on the achievement of getting through childbirth. I’d also like to thank her for all the immense pain she endured on my behalf.
For the sake of balance, I should also probably take this opportunity to thank my Dad too. Let’s not forget his achievements in the childbearing process. Not quite sure what they were specifically, I must admit. Off the top of my head, I suppose I should show him gratitude for having the restraint not to ‘knock one out’ earlier in the afternoon on my day of conception.
And having evoked such an image, it is probably best to put the subject away, for another year at least. I do hope my parents are proud of me.
