‘Happy birthday Sandy and how many is it now?’
‘What do you mean, how many since when?’
‘Since forever, of course.’
That was Jean and me talking at work. Jean knows everything about everyone: the keeper of the office gossip. She knows everybody’s birthday. I suspect she is so lonely she does this so we have to mark her own birthday when the time comes.
I don’t like Jean, she reminds me of the busy-bodies of my mother’s generation who always stopped us kids having fun.
I thought I’d wind Jean up. Big mistake. ‘Oh I thought you meant how many happy birthdays have I had.’
I wished I’d never asked. That’s another thing about Jean, she can never just answer a question, she has to make a drama of it.
‘Me, I’m forty-four. There. That’s how I would have answered,’ she clucked and waddled off to the coffee machine.
But d’you know what? She right spoiled my day. She got me thinking. How many happy birthdays have I had? What does happy mean anyway? When was I last truly happy; have I ever been happy?
My life’s been no different to other folk’s. I have a husband in work, two kids (sometimes lovely, often not), we go to Spain on holiday.
Older people often ask themselves what happened to their dreams; I have no problem on that score, I don’t think I ever had dreams.
I’d rather not think about it.
Have I ever been happy? God curse Jean.
Click here for more stories about old age
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 