Without wishing to blow my own strumpet, I would admit that I have 47 years of experience with men.
Since 49% of the world's population are male, I have found them difficult to avoid. After many a long year locked up in a convent, for now all to obvious reasons, I found that I was a little short in the feminine wiles department. As everyone knows, all of life's important life skills may be gleaned from a good book. Thusly I modeled my behaviour upon the more simpering characters found in Jane Austen's novels. Although I practiced dutifully, dropping freshly ironed lace handerchieves and the like, on the whole, I found the whole exercise less than successful. Indeed as I look back, I see these early steps as a foreshadowing of my future life as a laundry victim.
During the intervening years I enjoyed a variety of interesting but fatally flawed relationships. It took me longer than most to realize, that I was the fatal flaw. I adopted a new modus operandum, plain speaking. Things improved almost immediately.
These days I ensure that all interested parties are aware of forthcoming events prior to their arrival. I am more than happy to facilitate communication by coping off A4 sheets of paper, announcing that my birthday is arriving on such a such date and plastering it all over the house. Such wanton self promotion is an irritation to my personal psyche but is preferable to the third party misery caused by an oversight.
And it is always an oversight.
I do a little victory dance in the kitchen as visual accompaniment to my question, “what day is it tomorrow?”
“Yes. What else?”
I adopt a more enthusiastic dance, more of an Irish Jig.
“I'm not jumping I'm dancing! Good guess. It's Saturday today. Try again.”
I wiggle and wriggle, my version of Hip Hop wearing my best happy face.
“Yes! What else?”
I shimmy along the floor boards, a cross between punk rocker and demented chicken.
“Er……….21 days til dah praying mantis is borned!”
I glare at the tick down chart and block their view to that particular visual cue. I gyrate a little more whilst avoiding dizziness as I'm running out of dances, “yes, but what else?”
“Er it is my birthday soon?”
“Good one, but not for another 24 days. What else?”
I'm down to waltz and ballroom dancing.
“Er 32 days until summer holidays!”
I slither over to the other side of the room to block their view to the other tick down chart, and attempt belly dance, “true, but what else!”
I invert my arms from the elbow, to point at me.
“Er…..it is ……..red day?” they offer with a certain degree of uncertainty.
I pout. Here I am doing my very best to help them out, give them 24 hours warning and I am met with a brick wall. Perhaps there are too many visual cues or just the wrong ones? Maybe I should write 'MOTHER' on my forehead? Where is my black sharpie pen anyway? “Mothers day! It's Mother's Day tomorrow! Right?”
“No? Oh, is it next week?” I nip over to the calendar to check if I'm being a bit previous, “hmm, yes, I think it is, see, look here?”
“Er……….maybe it is being a surprise day………tomorrow.”
Pretty much of a surprise day today!