‘Birthday’ party that was so funny it hurt

When my sister was five and a quarter she decided that she was going to have a birthday party.

no explaining that she couldn’t have another until she was six had any effect. no, she was going to have a birthday party for five and a quarter, and she was going to have it that day. now, at eight and one twelfth I could have mounted a similar campaign, but having caught the disapproving eye of my father, who knew exactly what was in my mind, I thought I’d let that particular anniversary slide.

My sister, on the other hand, had a stubborn streak which she had demonstrated from an early age, and she was adamant about her party, so we set up a table in my bedroom with three chairs. We sat down to her dolls’ tea set and a large, clear Pyrex dish full of water in the middle masquerading as a jelly, a gift of a Penguin each from Mum, plus a few digestive biscuits. My mother retired to the kitchen and my father, who would have no part of it, remained in the lounge reading his Sunday paper.

My sister asked if we would like tea. Pouring water from her teapot into our cups, with perfect mimicry she raised her cup to her lips and — with her little finger sticking out — took a sip and pretended it was too hot. My brother and I burst out laughing and wobbled the contents of our cups down our fronts, which gave our sister the giggles. Our father’s voice resonated from the lounge: ‘All right, keep it quiet in there.’ We stifled our laughter for a few minutes, but the damage was done and we burst out laughing again.

‘I’m warning you, if you don’t keep quiet, I’ll be in there.’ he snapped his paper irritably in a children-shouldbe-seen-and-not-heard manner. We looked at our hands, refusing to look at each other for fear of sparking the other off. But it made no difference as we sat there with tears rolling down our cheeks, our shoulders shaking, and milk teeth clamped over lower lips, until simultaneously we let out the loudest squeal of laughter you have ever heard. The chair in the lounge scraped back and we heard a newspaper hit the floor.

‘Right, that’s it! Party’s over!’ Dad stormed into the bedroom, angrily gathered up the tea service to his chest, then swept up the Pyrex dish that, in his haste, he failed to notice was full of water. Open-mouthed, we looked up as the water cascaded over his head and ran in a torrent from the end of his generous nose. There was a pregnant pause, after which two things happened in rapid succession. First, we fell about laughing; second, our father dropped everything and, squelching out of the room, made a beeline for the hall cupboard.

now, whilst I was aware a caning was evident, boy was that funny. I was still laughing as my father returned. I looked round for the other two, but they had scarpered, leaving me to take the stick.

My father reached down and, with consummate ease born of practice, had me over his knee. Up to that point I was still giggling a bit, but the gravity of what was coming dawned on me and so, with teeth gritted, I waited. My father took a deep breath, swung the cane up and smashed the light bulb. Well, I was gone. I remember my shrieks of laughter echoing round that bedroom as my father finally gave up.

As I look back more than 70 years to that birthday party, it is interesting to note that, while I cannot remember the pain, I’ll never forget that lightbulb moment…