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Saturday, September 23, 2017

Why I'm Going to Lie About My Age!

It’s my birthday on Monday and I’ve noticed that lately, when I tell people I’m almost 57 years old, there are no gasps of, “Oh no! You couldn’t possibly be! You don’t look anywhere near that old, Pinky.”
I wait for it. But the shock and astonishment never seems to fall upon their visage.

I stare at the people in question in concentrated silence until they begin to shuffle their feet in discomfort.

I fix them with my beady eyes, searching their face for some kind of bewildered admiration.

After a while, I realise with a stunned and disappointed insight, they think I actually look my age.

So it's been decided, I'm going to start telling people I’m 67. 

Surely that should get me some compliments?

I bought my own birthday present yesterday. Scotto will reimburse me and it will be his present to me. He’s not allowed to know what it is because one of us has to be surprised on the day.

“I hope I like what you got me for my birthday,” I excitedly whispered in his ear as we snuggled in front of the telly last night. “I hope you didn’t spend too much money on me, darling.”

He looked confused for a few minutes but then light dawned on his face. He played along.

"Is it something I can wear or something I can eat?" I enquired coquettishly. "Can I shake the box? Pleassse?"

“Don’t look at the other white package on the table,” he cautioned, wagging his finger at me. “There’s another birthday surprise in it.”

“Do you mean the present from the kids?” I scoffed. “But I already know what that is, silly! I told you to tell them what I wanted!”
A weary expression spread over his face. I could see he wasn’t going to play my game anymore.

To be truthful, I have a strong suspicion Scotto is attempting to kill me before I reach my next milestone.

Remember the mountain’s Scarecrow Festival I wrote about last year? Well this year Scotto entered his own scarecrow to promote his computer business in the community.

I was leaving for work last week and as I opened the front door, I caught this in my peripheral vision.

I jumped out of my skin, swearing loudly. 

I’d thought it was a big yellow carrot-creature come to slit my throat.

Cursing Scotto under my breath, I bent down to pour Whiskers in the cat bowl and endured a second coronary event when I stood up and spotted the behemoth five seconds later; then again, as I pulled out of the driveway and glimpsed the malevolent monster, towering menacingly at the front door.

I was very glad when Scotto took the terrifying thing away for display.

Yesterday, as I was taking a box of wine bottles out to the bin, I rounded the corner and swiftly dropped said box, smashing glass everywhere when I sighted this freak hanging over the fence leering at me.

I swear Scotto is planting the evil stuffed thing in odd places in an ill-disguised endeavour to murder me via a devastating cardiac arrest. 

If I am found dead in bed with this thing next to me on Monday morning then you will know who caused my sudden demise.

But you’ll be pleased to hear I am still alive at the moment and getting very excited about the impending B day even though I will be turning the magic 67.
I know! How the years fly by.

Feel free to comment on how you can't believe I'm 67.