Short Story: Terry Wogan Stole My Birthday

Dear William
Thanks for reminding me of that still gut-wrenching day when, like Harry Potter, my parents forgot I had been born. It must have been ’70 or ’71. I’m amazed u remembered it.

The whole family had just moved stressfully from the wilds of Inverness back to Birkenhead, the dream of a new life in tatters.

On the morning in question I sat down as usual at the kitchen table for the usual cornflakes and slice of toast, hoping the family would say “happy birthday”, but instead all I got was a stony silence. Wogan wittered endlessly on the radio. I peered round the room expectantly. Surely they knew? After all, I’d just reached a benchmark age, a moment never to be repeated. Double figures.

Time dragged on, Terry Wogan was replaced by Jimmy Young or someone and I grabbed my bag and blazer and left for school. I think the penny dropped later. When I got home apologies were offered and accepted.

You might think I was being a self-obsessed brat, and perhaps you’re right. But in self defence, such matters are more important at that age than they are later in life, to state the obvious.

I will now repair to the bathroom to weep one last time. Have a great evening and stay cool and hydrated in this weather.

Stu X
Sent from my iPhone

More of my short stories…

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