Aged P

It’s my mother’s sixtieth birthday today. She rang me and the conversation went a little like this. . .

"Sweetheart!"

"Hi Mum."

"Yes it's me. I’m old. OLD OLD OLD."

"Yeah I know. Happy Birthday. I was going to ring you."

"I’m an Aged P (said Age'ed), like in Dickens. Which one was that? I think it was Dombey, no maybe it was Bleak House. Anyway this fellow called his father the "Aged P" like parent. Now that’s what I am. Looks like I may have a job. Remember that second hand book shop, the one with the women who sits in the window all day picking her nose? Well turns out when she is not picking her nose she is quite nice. Anyway I was in there and I said to myself, just go up and ask her if there is any work. So I did. Turns out she races Go Carts (and she’s quite large so I don’t know how that works) but when she is racing her Go Carts she needs someone to watch the shop. So looks like I may have a job."

"That's great."

"And I don't think the picking of ones nose is mandatory."

She shrieks.

"What’s wrong? Mum?!"

"Something has eaten the buds off my orchid!"

"What? You sounded like you’d been shot."

"Those bloody possums! Anyway how are you? How’s uni? How’s work and your friends?"

"Um. Good."

"That’s good. Sixty today!"

"Happy birthday."

"AGED P!"

"Yes, Mum."

"Sixty."

"Sixty is the new forty."

"Oh what nonsense. There’s a remarkable bird just outside my window."

"A what?"

"A bird, sweetie. Pity about the bloody possums though."

(From somewhere in the background I hear my brother offer her six dollars to shut up)

Anyway Happy Birthday, Mum. I wouldn't be this weird without you!