Do you need to see my tax return?

Advice please faceless crowd of the Internet. I’ve offended someone, and although I’m certainly not to blame, I’d love to try and help her if I can. My friend has approached me, armed verbatim with various comments I’ve made recently, and she’s hurt and annoyed.

As long as I’ve known her, she’s wanted to be a career woman. She worked hard in high school, studied the relevant subjects, got into a great university, got a fantastic degree, completed various summer work experiences, and obtained the certificates necessary to practise her vocation. Then began the hunt for a job.

She called me one night a few months ago, excited. She had just heard about an interview opportunity in her field. “I’m sending off the application now” she bubbled. “Hmm” I replied. “How much does that pay?” In hindsight, she deflated, and mumbled a reply. I wished her good luck, although apparently by focusing on the money I wasn’t being supportive.

Another time, she told me about some temping she was doing, picking up the odd shift here and there, honing her skills, working from home, making contacts. I was baffled. “But what are you DOING all day?” I asked genuinely. I mean come on, how can it be a REAL job if it isn’t 9-5 in an office right? That one wasn’t my fault. She’s just being over sensitive.

I didn’t see her for a while after that, and then our paths crossed at a social function. After catching her up with my life, the drudgery of finding childcare and commuting and never seeing my spouse, I asked her how her work was going? Had she found a job yet? She seemed nervous to talk about it, but told me she had a few different part time jobs going on, working for various different employers, bit of this bit of that. She told me it gave her the chance to see her kids, be home for her spouse in the evenings, make time for friends and hobbies, and that she’d never been happier.
Not wanting her to feel bad about her clearly flailing employment status, I smiled. “As long as you’re keeping yourself busy eh?” I sympathised, hoping for her sake that one of her ‘part time’ dabblings would become something concrete at last.

Later that week, I saw an admin job advertised online, and kindly sent her the link. Full time, in a proper office, with proper holiday days and benefits. Minimum wage, but beggars can’t be choosers eh? I thought she would be delighted to have someone in her corner, showing her what she was capable of if she just took the plunge into the real working world.

Now she’s sent me this email, telling me I’ve been condescending, patronising, unsupportive, rude even! But how can she call herself a professional? She never knows how much work she will have from one month to the next, she never knows how much she will be paid, she doesn’t even have real colleagues, or a desk to call her own. Sometimes she’s clearly so unfulfilled that she even works for free. But not ‘real volunteering’ for a charity or something worthwhile. She just obviously isn’t good enough at her job yet to deserve being paid.

I feel terrible for her. I’m trying not to take her harsh words to heart, as I’m sure it mainly comes from jealousy, and maybe some embarrassment that I’ve seen through the brave face she puts on when we meet.

A tragic story, I’m sure you’ll agree. And entirely not my fault.

Any leads for her gratefully received, so she can finally give up this “writing thing,” and get a real job.

Just don’t mention the edible glue.

I never had birthday cakes. As a kid I mean. I admit, it’s not the most often cited form of child abuse, so I can imagine you’re finding it hard to drum up appropriate sympathy. I doubt the NSPCC often whisper in hushed tones about birthday cake neglect as they try to rehouse badly cared for children. “Y’know, I heard he had to make do with cupcakes. And they weren’t even chocolate. I shudder to think.”

But it’s true nonetheless. I think the word ‘never’ might be a little harsh, as I have a couple of photos pre the age of 5 of me standing in front of store-bought rectangular monstrosities with calligraphy Happy Birthdays and chalky icing numbers that would never taste as good as they looked. After that age, I remember the odd year where I could sneak a supermarket-bought chocolate cake underneath the rest of the shopping in the trolley, once we’d checked for a V for Vegetarian of course. Our aim in life being to appear to the world as ultra-orthodox even though we were in reality nothing of the sort, these had to be eaten quickly and stealthily, and the trappings thrown in the outside bin so that no passing visitor (like my brother for example) would see that it wasn’t ‘strictly kosher.’ Eating cake in secret wasn’t something I would ever learn to enjoy, the self loathing pretty much overriding any of the butter-creamy goodness they ever had to offer.

So perhaps it’s more honest to say I never had the birthday cake ‘experience.’ No candles to blow out, no friends singing embarrassingly at me, no parents up to their elbows in fondant the night before the big day, cursing at Thomas’s funnel for refusing to stand upright. If I’m honest, it’s that last part that bothers me the most. I’m not the most creative person in the world, and a step by step recipe is going to be the least of my expectations if I’m going to make anything half recognisable, but making my son a birthday cake every year is one of the ways I say, “I know you.”

I know that before you were one, and you couldn’t even see our faces, reading the Gruffalo out loud was the only thing that could calm you down, so committing the entire book to memory was the least we could do for you. We spent the best part of that year regaling audiences across coffee shops and shopping malls and London transport whenever you were cranky. I’m pretty sure a couple people missed their stops to find out how that crafty mouse escaped consumption.

Before you were two, and you began to enjoy the world, you learned to reach out and have your own effect on your surroundings, lifting flaps and beaming at the results of your own hands. We read Dear Zoo over and over again, buying every version we could find. The devil makes work for idle hands must be based on a toddler, as keeping a book in your reach was the best way to keep our house intact.

This year, almost three, and you are making your own sentences, demanding to ‘read’ books to us, and with the patience given at birth (not mine, his) we listen to your babble with the odd word thrown in for good measure.  Each step I follow in making your cake this year is my way of showing how proud I am of your achievements.

I met a five year old recently who had been given a guitar cake for her birthday. “Amazing!” I exclaimed in my special over excited voice I reserve for children and the mentally challenged. When she shrugged I decided to probe further. “So how long have you been playing guitar?”

“I don’t.” She replied forlornly. “I play piano and recorder.”

Hello nspcc? It’s me again, I don’t think you’re understanding the gravity of the situation. She plays recorder, and the cake was in the shape of a GUITAR. That’s not even close frankly. It’s not even a wind instrument… .

It was like looking in a mirror. Over the top or not, slightly crazy or otherwise, this nugget of ‘I don’t know you’ from my own childhood has stayed with me. And so, I’m a little bit obsessed with birthday cakes. Weirdly enough, the birthday itself I can take or leave, buying random gifts last minute on Amazon, and choosing cards based on the ‘least awful one in the bargain bin’ criteria. (All I’m saying is, if I have to buy a five pound card, you aren’t getting a present. Or a card for that matter.) I’m not even a fan of the happy birthday song, as frankly I think if we all put our heads together we could do a lot better both musically and lyrically, but damn-it if I’m not going to get you double figure ‘likes’ on your cake photo on Facebook.

So it’s definitely not birthdays in general I feel passionately about. Although I’m glad I have one.  I once knew a man who had no idea when his birthday fell, or even how old he was. This to me was extremely newsworthy.

But.. but… how do you fill in forms? How do you sign up to things online? What’s life like without that oddly satisfying feeling of seeing your birthday written down on a pint of milk or a movie poster, like a private joke between you and the universe?

He seemed unperturbed, but I wasn’t interested in letting this go.

How did you ever get employed anywhere?!

“Ah, Mr Smith, lovely to meet you. Please do sit down and let me take a few pieces of basic information before we start the interview.”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“Full name?”
“Mr Horatio Brandon Smith.”
“Gender..? Male… Good, UK citizen?”
“Oh yes, for over three decades now.”
“Excellent. Date of Birth?”
“Ah… well actually… I’m not sure.”
“Sorry, I said date of birth. -pause- your birthday.”
“Yes, I don’t actually have that information to hand.”
“How about year of birth at least? … -awkward pause-  How OLD are you?”
“Cant help you there. Somewhere between 50 and 60 I would guess?”

It blew my mind. I mean, when does he have cake with his name on? Just randomly when he feels like it? Has he chosen a day in replacement? If so, how did he choose it? Statistically most people are born in August. Would he go with probability, or purposely choose a less likely month for fairness sake? I still have so many unanswered questions! Unfortunately, we never traded contact info, and it’s hard enough to track people down, let alone without a date of birth to go by….

This generation, birthdays have become a much bigger deal, with endless yummy mummies making their fortune with at-home bakeries sure to make even the pickiest birthday brat girl beam. And if like me, you’re a little bit hysterical and have based your worth as a parent on making the cake from start to finish by yourself, it’s much easier to be creative. Spending a mortgage payment at a shop called Sugar Shack, which is basically baking erotica, and armed with a step by step recipe pilfered from the Internet, I am now in possession of all the cheats necessary to make me a temporary Nigella. Edible markers, edible glitter, edible paint… Another plus of Sugar Shack is the ease you can convince your other half it’s a necessary investment just by reading out the names in your shopping basket. (Just don’t mention the edible glue.)

I’m not naive about the likely reception to my efforts. At the grand unveiling, I fully expect more praise from old high school friends I haven’t seen in a decade than I do from the eponymous hero of the cake itself. I imagine R looking briefly at the masterpiece, sussing it’s food and shouting ‘eat it!” before descending into a full blown tantrum. But that’s part of the magic for me. If a parent had made me a cake with half the effort that this one is going to take, I would probably be a blubbering mess of gratitude. I actually think it would be too much love to take. And while I do love cake, I’m aware that’s not a normal reaction.

Don’t get me wrong, as they grow old enough to understand both the concept of effort and the hassle of food colouring, I fully expect a heartfelt thank you for my yearly forays into domestic goddess mode. But I like the idea that birthday cakes will be the norm. Along with dinner on the table, bed times, cuddles, help with homework, and any number of other things I never had.

Probably the way my grandchildren will feel about expensive birthday cards.

1393075_10151758612223644_2060368304_n