I am fully aware that people do ‘throwback thursday’ normally, because it alliterates better than throwback tuesday. However, a notification came up for a like on this post today that was originally posted back in June, which caused me to look at it and find that it now had three likes in total–all three from random ‘robo blog’ type accounts, and this was before I tagged a few posts with deliberate ‘bot bait’ tags.
Anyway, after a bit of polishing it up, I thought I’d give it a bit of an airing to see if any current real readers would like it. Or just more bots.
The scene. I am sitting at my computer desk on this fine Sunday morning, before Mrs Bryntin has arisen–specifically it is 7am, but the given timeframe ‘before Mrs Bryntin has arisen‘ could be anything from now to midday on a Sunday. She works hard, it’s allowed.
I am sorting out my following week’s tasks on my office computer, ahem… definitely not just perusing eBay because of a fancy for a ‘new’ laptop–it’s not going to be brand new, but new to me, because I generally avoid buying new stuff–to replace my ageing ThinkPad, with it’s two keys missing and the need for coal. A ping emanates from the computer interrupting my serious work, and my browsing eBay, and a notification box pops up from my calendar. It says ‘Wedding Anniversary‘
I think about this a bit.
Mrs Bryntin has not already mentioned this.
I think again.
Mrs Bryntin has not hinted at this either.
I think again again.
No, I’m sure she hasn’t hinted, and I don’t think I actually missed the hint that was a very, very subtle hint either. These are the sort of hints that I have the suspicion were only intended as hints in retrospect when berating me for missing it, rather than at the time.
Typically, I probably wouldn’t have recognised this sort would I?
Because I am pragmatic and realistic and… well, rational, and if you mean ‘don’t forget it’s our anniversary this week‘, say ‘don’t forget it’s our anniversary this week‘, not casually mention ‘my favourite perfume is getting a bit low‘ or ‘we haven’t been out to eat for a while…‘, expecting me to fully comprehend the significance and intended meaning of these facts by myself, because I won’t, subtle doesn’t work on me at all, and then admonishing me with ‘well, I tried to tell you‘ when I have ‘forgotten it again‘ and obviously didn’t get it because there is no logic or reason in those small and insignificant comments that could be construed as ‘don’t forget our anniversary‘, and anyway, you did not tell me, you tangentially, laterally and cryptically ‘hinted’.
Perhaps she’s forgotten too?
She won’t have. Not in a brain which contains every lyric of every top 50 pop chart hit from 1968 to the present day. Unfortunately not always rendered with the same tune as that top 50 hit, even as it is playing on the radio to give a rough guide to it.
But I will hang on to that hope. I will cling to that hope. I will embrace the fleeting sense of pride that I have achieved something ever-so-slightly greater than that which Mrs Bryntin has achieved for once.
But what to do on a Sunday morning, to press home the advantage in this situation? Nip up to the garage and buy some flowers, £2.99 Special Offer sticker peeled off the cellophane, and a box of only just in-date Matchmaker chocolates?
I don’t think so. Me leaving the house before she is getting up will be like a bat signal to her… ‘something is up‘ will itch her spidey-senses and she’ll be magically down those stairs, when she was snoring ten seconds previously, and asking where I’m going this time of day before I’ve got my hat on.
Ring the favourite local pub and see if I can squeeze a lunch booking in? On the last day of the holidays, in the touristy coastal area that I live in… when lockdown lifting has meant booking ahead for tables is mandatory and families stalk the sides of the pub gardens, watching for signs that a family already seated is about to move away, even though they haven’t booked themselves, any involuntary twitch or moving to stand by the incumbent being interpreted as a possible free slot approaching, and any apparently free table being fought over, probably to the death, by hordes of Audi SUV driving, entitled cash-flashing tourist families who think that if they are on holiday, rules no longer apply, Dads using their 100 kilo stuffed beach-day essentials bags and windbreak poles as weapons, pub staff on the phone to the police…
Probably too late to book.
But, oddly, it’s only 7am, so it’s probably too early to phone to find out I’m too late.
Hmm… I think for now I will go for a card at least, so I go to the top drawer of the chest in the dining room, in which we keep a selection of cards, ‘blank for your own greeting’, for similar occasions on which last minute reminders of significant family members celebrating some sort of annual card-receiving event–birthdays, some major used-to-be-religious festival, various other newly invented give a card days and yes, anniversaries that have ambushed me on my calendar (which I could view ahead of time and know these things slightly in advance but umm… don’t–or if I see something is coming up, I think to myself ‘Oh, such and such is coming up, mustn’t forget that…‘ and forget about it until the event pops up on the day…)
Sorted. Choose a card. Not one of the Christmas ones.
See? I have my wits about me.
I choose one with a watercolour of lillys on. A ‘pretty’ one. And, I suppose, it’s flowers, of a sort.
I write in it ‘Happy Anniversary!‘
What else do you write? I mean, before the lovey stuff?
‘Congratulations to us, 7 years, that’s now just a year off how long my first marriage lasted!‘
I choose to write a little rhyme
‘It’s seven years ago now,
the happiest day of my life
we stood and grinned and cut the cake
Glad that was the reason for the knife‘
Card written, envelope sealed, propped up on my desk in front of me, awaiting fragrant arrival of Mrs Bryntin.
Which duly happened two hours later.
As is customary, I swivel away from my computer screen, look up and welcome her with a ‘Good morning‘, a kiss and a hug, and as she hugs me, she peruses what is on my computer screen over my shoulder.
I had, of course, heard her delicate footsteps echoing down the stairs, and have strategically opened my project management software window, with it looking very busy and complicated, and minimised the eBay one. The new laptop eBay one might yet be opened again, but it hinges on what happens next…
She sees the envelope with her name on, propped up against my computer screen.
“A card? For me? Why do I get a card today?“, she says
I feel it’s going to be a winning day.