For some obscure reason, Kevin Page was consumed by a craving for salad vegetables on his birthday. Photo / 123rf
This past week, as our planet notched up another year of endless circling of the sun, I celebrated a birthday.
It was the 41st anniversary of my 21st birthday.
I’ll hum to myself for a few seconds or so while you work it out. Got it? Good.
Anyway, after the initial shock of reaching my present vintage subsided, I found myself wondering where all those years had gone. I mean, I’m sure I was only 30-odd a few years ago. Wasn’t I?
My confusion was compounded by a phone hook-up – I don’t even know what you call it but I could see and talk to them and they could see and talk to me – with four of the grandkids.
“What was it like in the olden days, Grandad?” asked Miss 8 Going On 18, if you get my drift.
“Did you have hair then?” said Miss 4.
“I did a big boy wee in the toilet,” said Master 2, completely missing the point of the call but making a contribution nonetheless.
So I told them about dial-up telephones, records (“those big round black things”) and the Goodnight Kiwi.
I explained all about ’70s fashion – I’m not sure they believed me when I said it wasn’t fancy dress and we really did wear those colours and patterns every day.
I showed them a picture of me (with hair) playing football and dancing with Mrs P at our wedding.
“Narney looks beautiful,” the girls said sweetly.
“Your tummy is fat,” said Master 2.
They sat excitedly – two beside their computer in Australia and two beside theirs in the Far North – as I opened the presents they had sent me.
Needless to say, I’ve now got four new coloured pencil drawings to stick on the door of the fridge in the caravan.
If I didn’t feel old before, I did at that moment.
Later Mrs P and I went for lunch and to do a bit of shopping. On both counts, I could have anything I wanted, she said.
Oddly, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted or needed.
I got a new hip six months ago and a flash new pair of walking shoes a couple of months after that so I was pretty content.
Maybe that’s what happens when you reach my age.
As for lunch, well, I’m not really sure what happened.
Not that long ago, I was craving an Indian curry for my birthday – I’m a big fan – but by the time we’d wandered around the food court at the mall near where we are at the moment, I was feeling less enthusiastic.
For some obscure reason, I had a craving for salad vegetables.
Those who know me well will also know the last time this occurred was, well, I’m not sure it has ever occurred. I’m simply not a fan. Never have been. But there it was. I felt like some healthy, crunchy salad vegetables. Preferably in a nice sandwich.
After almost fainting with shock, Mrs P practically sprinted to a nearby cafe known for such delicacies and before I could say “hang on, I’ve changed my mind”, I was chowing down.
Have to say it wasn’t bad either.
And so as I sat there chomping away – Mrs P beside me texting the news of my dietary conversion to all and sundry – I got to thinking about the past 62 years.
I’ve had a good run. Done heaps of things. Met lots of interesting people. Raised a family of great kids with an amazing woman who floats my boat.
Sure, things have started getting a bit rusty body-wise, and the occasional bit has fallen off thanks to some arthritis here and there, but I reckon there’s a lot more fun times ahead of us.
After all, I’m 62, not 92. And I don’t mean that to sound like it’s the end of the road for 92-year-olds.
I met such a fellow at the swimming pool a wee while ago and he put me to shame with the number of laps he did, seemingly effortlessly.
After his regular exercise, he was going to lunch “with the boys,” he said. They met regularly at a place where lunch was discounted for pensioners.
The notion appealed to me.
A group of blokes in their 90s hanging out. I bet there were some stories told at that get-together.
There were definitely some stories recalled at the lunch Mrs P and I had.
We remembered lots of past birthdays and reaffirmed a commitment to live life to the fullest, though I had to push back on her suggestion I should perhaps have a salad-vegetable sandwich most days.
I mean, let’s not go crazy here. Once is a year is fine by me.
Finally, despite all this ageing creeping up on me, I’ve managed to retain my sense of humour, natural charm and boyish good looks.
Or at least that’s what I reckon. She Who Still Makes Me Smile had a different view.
When I made that same comment to Mrs P, she laughed and asked where she could buy a mirror like mine.
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