THE FARMER AND HIS WIFE

Birthdays are a tricky business, John Taylor says . . .

THE phone rang. Anne went to answer it. It’s nearly always for her. It was our daughter, Mary, at the other end.

After 10 minutes, Anne put the receiver on the table and turned to me. “Mary wants a word.” I could see Anne was puzzled.

What on earth did Mary want with Dad?

“How are you keeping, Dad?” Mary asked in a loud voice.

Then she whispered quickly.

“Dad, don’t forget it’s Mum’s birthday next week!”

“Thanks for thinking about me,” I said loudly.

Mary must have remembered that last year I was in real trouble.

I’d had a busy day. Before going to bed, I went down to the byre to check on a cow I knew would calve before morning.

I got up at three a.m. and helped deliver a fine bull calf.

After a quick wash, I went back to bed to snatch three hours’ sleep.

Anne was frosty over breakfast, but I put it down to her being disturbed in the night.

That Tuesday was auction day.

A wagon was coming for three bullocks and I wanted to be in Cupar to see them unloaded.

Anne didn’t bother to come and look at the new calf, but I didn’t give this much thought.

The bullocks sold well, so I went home feeling pleased with myself.

One glance at the kitchen mantelpiece and the bottom dropped out of my world.

There stood five birthday cards, arranged there, I have no doubt, for my benefit.

“Many happy returns, dear,” I said lamely.

I got a flood of tears and, between sobs, a caustic remark about being able to remember when a cow should calve but not when it was my wife’s birthday.

However much I expressed my apologies and sorrow it didn’t make any difference.

The damage had been done.

Anne must have poured out her woes to Mary afterwards, hence her guarded message to me not to forget it again this year.

Women seem terribly touchy on this birthday business, but if you remind them of their age, well, the fat’s in the fire again.

What’s a poor fellow to do?

“It’s Mum’s birthday next week!”

MORE NEXT WEEK.