It was my birthday last week and I was pampered. By some distance the best thing was the lie-in, that beautifully dark, warm oblivion of childlessness that crept all the way to 8.25 before I awoke, fresh and rested, and journeyed downstairs as if a cherub borne by bluebirds, albeit a cherub with severe back pain. There I discovered a lovely shirt and some pretty running shoes, and cards from my wife, son and one sent from home by my dad.
I’m 37 now, but my dad’s birthday cards have been the same since I was three. They’re always of the ‘For My Son, On His Birthday’ genre; a curiously muted watercolour of a child’s bedroom, freshly made bed, generic football posters on the walls, perhaps a cricket bat resting by the door. They always seem a little too maudlin and melancholy to be congratulatory, as if it’s my seventh birthday, but also I’ve died in the First World War and he misses me.
My wife’s cards are less austere. This year I get a sky-diving dog with googly eyes screaming ‘BIRTHDAY BOY!’ as well as a specially made card by the boy, which is a work of art in itself. Adorned with spangly stickers and expertly drawn rainbows, on the left I spot two tell-tale circles with spaghetti lines joining them. I can obviously tell that these depict me giving him a piggyback, but his mum informs me quietly just in case, and he’s delighted when I thank him for having that much faith in my ability to lift him, what with my bad back. Inside, he’s written D A D Y in capital letters, and I marvel at how well his writing is coming on.
I love birthdays, since a childhood spent with 10 siblings left me starved of special attention. Also, getting older has never really bothered me as, by sheer happenstance, most of my friends are a few years older than I am, and consider me something of a baby. ‘Thirty!?’ they used to blurt, to my delight. ‘You don’t look it.’
That was until I started gathering the white hairs, paunch and back pain that have settled in since I’ve had kids, the latter of which nearly risked me cancelling my final present: a deep-tissue massage my wife had booked as a surprise. Whether out of denial, or frugality, I hobbled to my appointment and was soon face down in a darkened room, having my spine manipulated by a charming masseuse. She used warm oils and worked her magic to a soundtrack of jazz so complacent, it made NatWest’s hold music sound like Autechre.
She pulped the knot in my back like it was a Creme Egg lodged in pastry. Something gave and, rather than searing pain, I felt a wave of relief spread across me. I let out a distinctly unmanly moan and, perhaps to break the awkwardness of the moment, she asked me if my visit today had been a special treat.
‘It’s my birthday, I said, my voice muffled through the little hole in the table. ‘I’m 37.’ ‘Oh,’ she replied. I paused, waiting for her to tell me I didn’t look it. ‘That’s nice,’ she said.
Did Ye Hear Mammy Died? by Séamas O’Reilly is out now (Little, Brown, £16.99). Buy a copy from guardianbookshop at £14.78
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