OK, so here's a life lesson. Don't try fixing a birthday cake with ketchup. Tipp-Ex would have been better. As Dad brought out the cake, Mum's jaw dropped. And not in a good way. I mean, if you take a white iced cake and pipe it all over with ketchup, it basically looks like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We all launched into "Happy Birthday" extra loudly, and as soon as we'd finished and Mum had blown out her (one) candle, Dad said, "Great! So let me take that away and cut it up—" "Wait." Mum put a hand on his. "What IS that? That's not ketchup?" "It's a Heston Blumenthal recipe," said Dad without blinking. "Experimental." "Right." Mum still looked puzzled. "But isn't that..." Before anyone could stop her, she was scraping the ketchup off with a napkin. "I thought so! There's a message underneath." "It's nothing," said Dad quickly. "But it's piped in icing!" She wiped away the last blobs of ketchup and we all stared in silence at the smeared red-and-white cake.
"Steven," said Mum at last in an odd voice. "Why does it say thirty-nine?" "It doesn't! It says thirty-eight. Look." Dad's hand traced over the vestiges of the ketchup. "That's an eight." "Nine." Snotlout pointed confidently at the cake. "Number nine." "It's an eight, Sam!" said Dad sharply. "Eight!" I could see Snotlout staring at the cake in puzzlement and felt a twinge of sympathy for him. How's he supposed to learn anything with nutso parents like ours? "It's a nine, Sam," I whispered in his ear. "Daddy's joking." "Do you think I'm thirty-nine?" Mum looked up at Dad. "Do I look thirty-nine? Is that what you think?" She squashed her face between her hands and glared at him. "Is this a thirty-nine-year-old face? Is that what you're telling me?" I think Dad should have just junked the cake.
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So this evening my dad is taking my mum on a date for her birthday, which you can tell from the clouds of perfume that suddenly descend from their bedroom. Mum isn't exactly subtle when she goes out. As she always tells us, her social life is practically nonexistent since having three kids, so when she goes out, she makes up for it with perfume, eye liner, hair spray and heels. As she totters out her room, I can see a little fake-tan blotch on the back of her arm, but I won't tell her. Not on her birthday. "Will you be all right, darling?" She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks anxiously at me. "You've got our numbers. Any problems, you tell Heather to call, straightaway."
Mum knows I'm not brilliant with phones. Which is why Heather is officially on babysitting duty, not me. "I'll be fine, Mum." "Of course you will," she says, but doesn't let go of my shoulders. "Sweetheart, take it easy. Have an early night." "I will," I promise. "And, Heather. . ." She looks up as she lopes into the hall. "You will be doing homework only. Because I am taking this with me." She brandishes a power cable triumphantly, and Heather gapes. "Did you—" "Unplug your computer? Yes, young woman, I did. I don't want that computer going on for a nanosecond. If you finish your homework you can watch TV or read a book. Read some Dickens!" "Dickens," echoes Heather in disparaging tones. "Yes, Dickens! Why not? When I was your age—" "I know." Heather cuts her off. "You went to see Dickens live. And he rocked." Mum rolls her eyes. "Very funny." "So! Where's the birthday girl?" Dad comes out the bathroom, bringing with him a cloud of aftershave. What is it with parents and too much perfume? "Now, are you guys OK?" He looks at me and Heather. "Because we'll only be round the corner." My parents cannot leave the house. Mum has to do a final check on Snotlout, and Dad remembers he left the sprinkler on in the garden and then Mum wants to make sure that her Sky Plus is recording EastEnders. Eventually we chivvy them out and look at each other.
