Something, dear reader, is amiss. Strange things are happening, and I don’t just mean the general randomness of life chez-nous, such as finding five-day-old socks under the cushion on the sofa, or the discovery that the nice new cereal you purchased has mysteriously disappeared, leaving an empty box in the cupboard. No, this is weirder still. For instance, this morning I was woken by the chinking of crockery and glasses, and then a cup of tea was placed by my bed by a small smiley boy. On entering the kitchen, I discovered that all the cups, glasses and plates had been stolen. No, even stranger, they’d been washed, dried and replaced in the cupboard. Now my cupboards generally remain empty, because apart from when my Mum’s here and they get tidied away, the usual cycle goes: sink to drainer to table to sink to drainer and straight back to table. Curiouser and curiouser.

It transpires, though, that we haven’t got a community of friendly, washing up-loving elves. Nope, the well-known phenomenon of ‘pre-birthday sucking up’ is once again upon us, as the perpetrator of all these good deeds is shortly to turn nine. Why the avaricious little weasel thinks that cleaning up will result in bigger presents is beyond me, but you can’t blame him for trying.

And so it was that, with a suitable flourish, we were presented with [cue fanfare] the birthday list, neatly typed and printed, stretching to a staggering 15 items and including such gems as ‘Grand Theft Auto Liberty City Stories’ (an 18 certificate PlayStation game - not gonna happen) and a pool table. On closer interrogation it turned out that what he actually wanted was a bike ‘with gears’, so off to Halfords we went, paying 1.70 Euro to drive approximately 300 yards through the toll bridge to the retail park. I have to say I was truly stunned to discover that people pay more than 1600 Euro for a mountain bike. Blimey. While Hubby and I stood, mouths agape, looking at the prices, #2 pinged from bike to bike like he was on fast-forward, fairly dribbling with excitement. After talking him down from an adult-sized monster, teetering on the saddle (held upright by the stand) and insisting that he’d grow enough in the next few days in order to reach the floor by his birthday, we found a reasonable compromise. Hubby, as usual, spent the whole trip talking on his phone, so we had to communicate by hand signals, lip reading and mimed displays of mock horror. When we’d finally relieved Hubby of a disgusting amount of money, got the enormous box in the car by removing the rear headrests and wrestling, pushing and pulling until we were all cross and frazzled, little #2, pink and breathless with excitement squeaked ‘I LOVE birthdays!’ Yeah. Me too.

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