I’ve always been pretty good at remembering dates. Birthdays, in particular. I’ve no idea why, I can’t remember things about my actual job from one day to the next, but I can.
There are exceptions to every rule, of course. I have two Godsons – or quasi-Godson in one case – whose birthdays I can never remember, other than which month they are in. I am pretty sure that this is because I’ve never actually been told the dates – but I could be wrong about that, too.
The other birthday which I always used to have trouble with was my Mum’s. She was born on December 22nd (I’m not going to say which year, because she does share a birthday with Noel Edmonds and that is embarrassing enough for anyone) and yet, for some reason, I spent years thinking that it was the 23rd.
In some respects, this wasn’t too much of a problem. I’m not normally a ‘last minute present buying’ kind of person, and having to produce a gift a day earlier than anticipated wasn’t really a hardship.
Another reason why it often didn’t matter is that, being the sensitive soul that I am, I often bought her joint Christmas and birthday presents – and you can’t possibly have your Christmas present early.
It took me years to realise that this really wasn’t the done thing, that other people don’t tend to get joint presents like that and that I should probably put a bit more effort into my Christmas shopping.
So, for all of those occasions – and for all of the really naff presents I must have bought you down the years – sorry, Mum.
And happy birthday for yesterday