It is birthday season in my house. That is to say that it was now a mere nine months since what is obviously considered, our family mating season. Let me explain. The majority of the birth anniversary celebrations among our family and friends are held around this time of year. Let’s just say that the males in our circle are dangerous around July and August.
I am concerned that my fourteen year old son is getting used to a life of indolence and chocolate cake.
The biggest problem of course is that birthdays, as with most things we find enjoyable, are habit forming. No sooner is one over, then we seem to be counting the days until the excuse for over indulgence rises in the east again.
It is now 10am and the lad is just demolishing, what can only be described as, a huge slab of dark brown gateaux. In a quantity normally sufficient to form the foundation for some high rise office block in the City of London. And all this not ten minutes after polishing off the, by now traditional, Sunday morning bacon sandwich.
The cake in question is the last remnants of his grandmother’s 70th Birthday monstrosity. One that I suspect is singularly responsible for the near future demise of the cocoa industry. See here for details.
Also, we have just been reminded that tomorrow is a special day for our neighbour of ten years, who has been suffering his latest bout of chemo with astonishing good humour, and deserves some extra cheering up. Cheering up of course will come in the form of some aerated flour, egg, butter and caster sugar concoction. Then it will be, “you can’t leave the poor little chap out, here take this wedge home for him”.
Just ten days or so ago it was the turn of his pseudo aunt to age yet another year. Not a family relation I know but close enough. She did after all go to school with the mother.
That’s the same mother who inveigled and cajoled the older sister into baking Fudge Brownies for her to celebrate Mother’s Day today. They are sitting in the kitchen at the moment, awaiting their fate. This has been postponed until after the very necessary annual visit to the same grandmother that had the temerity to last out for a full three score years and ten just a few days ago. Not surprising really as “she is a mother too“, of course.
You are probably wondering where I figure in all this? Well not to be out done, having patiently waited my chance to be the centre of confectionary induced attention. I get my turn in a month’s time, once the other grandfather has had a spin on the revolving cake stand of life. In that nine day span I share the glory with my brother-in-law, a few days later, and the lad himself in just a couple of days time.
So in the words of some famous French Bint “Let them eat cake.”
Just try and stop me.
A Life On The Shelf 
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