Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to read this post.
Remember last week how I was so busy I ignored you all? I was busy with this:
The Hub’s father once gave him a set of photo albums with pictures of his life. Last August I thought that would be a lovely gift for Tory Boy’s birthday, with the addition of the stories of the photos, as much as I could remember. My idea was to buy a couple of scrapbooks but the Hub thought it should be something special. He found an old photo album in a charity shop, re-covered it, and bought two plaques: one for the cover with TB’s name and D.O.B., and one inside with a loving message from us all. Spud chose the font; it was a family project.
By January I had sorted our extensive photo collection into His ‘n’ Ours groups. I already had them filed by years into boxes, so it was a big job but not as big as it could have been. All that remained was to stick them into the album and write comments.
Tory Boy’s (should I start calling him Tory Man now, do you think?) birthday was last Monday. On the Thursday I thought I’d better get a move on, and did. Ten-thirty Thursday night found me crying in the Hub’s arms that I’dusedtheoursphotosinsteadofthehisphotsnadI’dhavetostartalloveragain. The Hub sent me to bed with instructions to start afresh the next day. He was right.
He would have helped me but he wasn’t allowed because every time he came near to offer guidance and advice I snarled getlostdivorcethiswasmyideayou’vedoneyourbit and he retreated to the safety of Sky Sports watching. We haven’t stayed married this long by ignoring the danger signs.
Friday and Saturday were busy days but I got about seven hours in; Sunday, I locked myself in the bedroom all day, fortified by mugs of Earl Grey passed through a grill, and my secret chocolate stash.
On Sunday evening around eleven, it was done. That boy better appreciate how much we love him. His father and brother had to live with me like that for three days. Think panic, hormones (my baby was no longer a baby, as every baby photograph reminded me) and blog-withdrawal.
The great day dawned:
That’s the album on the right.
He loved it; it was his best present, and his presents included an antique pocket watch:
a fabulous jellyroll quilt made by Viv (so he wouldn’t steal mine):
a Playstation 1 and Nintendo Gameboy from his brother:
and of course, books, dvds and lots of dosh – the last bit not from us, but from kind family and friends. We are buying Tory Boy’s air ticket to wherever he wants to go that we can afford, and he will use his birthday cash as spends. Making memories is more fun than material goods; though they are nice, too.
The PS1 and GB might seem like odd gifts, but TB is into old games. The Gameboy used to belong to Spud and he sold it to a friend early last year. TB was upset so Spud persuaded his friend (after a lot of harassing and restraining orders) to sell it back to him. He happened to spot the PS1 on a boot sale the week before TB’s birthday and bought it because he felt bad that he had not been able to find the particular game TB wanted to go with the GB.
Do I not have thoughtful, generous children? I think I do.
We bought Tory Boy the obligatory key, of course:
From the pound shop. He had a gold charm for his eighteenth and we know from experience that those keys end up packed away, one week after the important birthday, never to be seen again, so we thought our money was better spent on the ingredients for his birthday fridge tart:
It’s a favourite recipe of TB’s but costs a fortune to make. The key ingredient is Peppermint Crisp (it’s a South African recipe) and TB supplied that himself, having ordered it from an online South African shop and presenting it to me with the words, Make fridge tart.
We couldn’t persuade him to have a party or even a few family and friends round on the day. He wanted to spend it quietly at home with us, and he did, and declared it perfect.
He’s a man now; I suppose I have to let him do what he wants. As proud of him as I am, however, I miss my baby. I could make him get a haircut when he needed one.
The Laughing Housewife 
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