Dialogue: Birthdays really can be such a challenge

By ROANNE PARKER

It's my birthday this week. That should be enough to get me grinning, but I'm really not. That Parker woman - whinge, bloody whinge, whinge, whinge. The thing is that at the moment, I have a few issues that are distracting me from my impending many happy returns.

The first issue is that I already have my presents. Having both my little sister and my mum here in the past week has been wonderful, but of course when they said, "Do you want your present now?" I said, "Yes, please" like a 4-year-old, and now I'll have no surprises. Sniff. Like a 4-year-old.

The second one is that three weeks ago I uncleverly crashed my car into a very large concrete pillar. The upshot of that was: I got to ride in a tow truck and hear that tow truck drivers' children can be ungrateful little sods; I finally got to meet the nice panel beaters who work next door to the office; and my insurance company sent me a letter saying it was so pleased to have a claim from me that it would like to offer me policies for my home, life and other flash stuff I don't even own but covet of my neighbours.

The third one is that my part-time nanny has up and moved to Romania.

So this week I get home at 6 o'clock and the house looks exactly as I left it - a freeze frame of the morning mayhem. You know that Munch painting The Scream? That's my face at 6 pm. I need a wife.

Oh, that reminds me of an advertisement I saw in the Herald on the weekend. "Seventy five-year-old would like to replace what I have had for the past 40 years. I need a 'her indoors' to take care of the domestics and let me get on with my busy and challenging life. Hamilton. Write to ... "

Oh well, pina coladas and walks in the rain are so old hat anyway. Goodness, I'll bet Hamilton is about to launch a radio show to promote this romantic opportunity.

Because I am so me-centric I had to pause here to wonder why an old bogy-man like that managed to get his last domestic help to stay 40 years when mine was off to Romania after nine short months.

Perhaps I should try the personals too. "Brilliant and somewhat manic heterosexual woman with 3 deps seeks grateful wretch to do all the housework and cooking, too, please. Need dinner on the table by 7.30 every night with accompanying glass of merlot. No whingers. Free board as long as you agree with me at all times and stay quiet while the news is on. Apply ... "

The last issue is that the day after my birthday I have to take Miss Six to the otorhinolaryngology paediatric outpatients. Sure, it's just the old ear, nose and throat doctor, but it's the best word I have seen for a long time and I have to work out a way to get it into the story.

She has been telling me for about two years that one day she had a bead and she was playing with it and then it just disappeared and she looked everywhere but she couldn't find it and she felt something in her ear.

They are great moments to marvel at her sheer brilliance but you don't leap up and search the house for the new pet when you hear all about how she found herself a puppy this morning and its name is Jack. The ear story goes on and on, and I did have the ear checked for flotsam at the time. But the GP recently saw a big fat something in there and proclaimed that it needed checking out.

I'm already feeling guilty. They reckon it looks like a cyst of some kind, but if it turns out that she has had a bead in her ear for two years, I swear on a strawberry Chupa-Chup that I will never again take her little stories with a pinch of salt.

It's my birthday this week, whether I'm in the mood for it or not, so I might as well just relax and have a good time. The car is all fixed and I'm resigned to the increase in premium for next year. At this stage I don't have to get married to sort out my ongoing domestic crisis. And to top it all off, I heard a whisper that mum and the kids sneaked off to the $2 shop, so there will be little bodies giving me cuddles and wrapped surprises on my birthday, and a grin from ear to ear on my face.

It doesn't get any better than that.