A Tale of Two Birthdays

Quoting Dickens when discussing a child's birthday is really too pseuds-corner to be true, but that's not going to stop me. Yesterday it was my son's sixth birthday party and to quote Dickens 'it was the best of times, it was the worst of times'. He had a fantastic time and thoroughly enjoyed every second, I, meanwhile, was prostrate with exhaustion and noise overload about five minutes in. However, I discovered something that surprised me: my ex can behave.

Rewind to last year. My son's fifth birthday party was a joint enterprise with a friend. We hired a steam train for the afternoon and chugged merrily up and down. The carriage was packed with excitable five-year-olds but the biggest child was my ex (or husband as he was then). He spent the entire afternoon with his portable radio headphones glued firmly in his ears listening to Leeds United getting thrashed. He was also morose, uncommunicative and downright rude. The scowl on his face was indescribable. Within days he was to announce that he was (a) having an affair (b) sodding off on holiday to Berlin with her instead of being home for our son's birthday and Reception class Nativity play and (c) it was all my fault. Hmmmmmnnn.

Fast-forward to this year. I had organised a party at a local bowling alley (the sort of activity he would have griped about last year). He arrived a few minutes late but almost immediately got involved in trying to stop six-year-olds dropping bowling balls on their own and their friends' feet. He then stood at the end on the bowling alley and helped the kids bowl for the whole afternoon. There was no scowling. There was no petulance. He congratulated me on how well the afternoon went. Heck, there might even have been a smile lurking below the beard. The biggest shock was discovering that my staff do this Friday clashes with his friends' wedding and he was willing to forgo the wedding so I could go out. If I were a cynical sort I'd say that he'd come to realise that I'm really not going to divorce him any time soon and so the only option left would be to kill me via giving me a major shock. I was fairly startled that he was doing something - gulp - altruistic. What the Dickens?: he's stopped acting like a dick.

But that's a Tale of Two Birthdays: last year was the worst of times, this year is starting to feel like the best of times. Roll on the staff do, I'm ready for a bit of mountaineering.

Happy returns

There are many ways in which to segment a lifespan: by careers, by rites of passage, by lovers, by hairstyles (both wise and, usually, unwise) but the simplest is by years. Tomorrow is my birthday and, unusually, I am about ten years younger than I was this time last year.

If I were clever enough to draw graphs I would be able to chart the gradual decline in my married fortunes by the manner in which my ex and I 'celebrated' my birthday. But I don't know how to do that.

1997 - a fantastic seventies cops themed party.

It was a cheap excuse to dress up as Charlie's Angels.

We scandalised the neighbourhood by having the party on the day Princess Diana was buried and the nation snuffled sadly. But we didn't. We dressed up in polyester and boogied.

2001 - my 30th. Huuuge party in Scarborough and a trip to Barcelona

2002 - I was pregnant so no drinking but we went to see a film

2005 - I was left at home to look after the kids whilst my ex went to football with his friends.

2007 - my birthday clashed with a home match again and I always lost. So went to the cinema with my best friend to watch 'Atonement' instead.

Hmmmmnnn. Do you see any decline in my fortunes? Unlike poor old Diana there weren't three people in my marriage towards the end, there were about 23. Me, my ex and the entirety of his football team. With me coming in at a paltry number 23.

So, what about this year? Well, I've had a bloody marvellous time. I went out on the town with my friends last night. We ate posh pizza. We drank cocktails with free Cobra chasers. My friends valiantly tried to get the Dj in an Indie club to play Duran Duran for me (they failed). A short Mancunian who looked like a bit like Ashley Peacock from 'Coronation Street' tried to chat me up (he also failed). I burnt chips at 4am. Today I recovered by eating Minstrels in front of 'Mamma Mia' whilst intermittently sniffling, singing and ogling Colin Firth. It rocked.

And I feel significantly younger than I did this time last year. I don't know about many happy returns, but I do know my happiness has returned.