When I'm Sixty-Four

I'm out on my bike, suited and booted in all my cycling gear. I hear my phone ring. I ignore it. It's probably scammers. I'm not getting off my bike for scammers. It stops ringing.

A few seconds later, it starts again. Scammers don't usually hit the redial button.

I stop the bike and fish out my phone. It's my wife, She Who Books Things. "What's up?" I say.

"Where are you?" she asks. "Have you forgotten we're going out this afternoon?"

Forgotten, no. Unaware, certainly. WTF?

"We're going to miss the start!" she tells me. "Get back here quick!"

I turn my bike around and head home.

A man under pressure.

Birthday

It's my birthday today. Not a big birthday. Not one of those with a zero at the end that has you evaluating your life choices as you stare into the mirror. The only reason this birthday rates a mention at all is because The Beatles wrote a song about it.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me…

To celebrate, She Who Books Things has got us tickets for a music event. What sort of gig? Well, my birthday falls within the Belfast Trad Fest week, so there's really only one option. Traditional Irish music, obviously. The only choice. No question about it. No question at all.

She Who Books Things loves Irish traditional music. I'm not as keen. Don't know why I'm bringing that up.

Liar! This could turn into a row and you're already on the back foot. You're gathering up a few grievances in case you need them.

Frank Exchange

I get back home fast. Then it's a mad rush to get showered and changed. In between the showering, changing and butt-naked running across the landing, a frank exchange of views ensues.

Voices are raised. Conflicting narratives are advanced. Exclamation marks pepper the air.

Narrative #1: I didn't forget! I didn't know in the first place! I thought we were going out this evening! You didn't tell me it was an afternoon gig! If you'd told me, I'd have remembered!

Narrative #2: You absolutely did forget! You did know in the first place because I told you when I booked it, and I wrote it up on the calendar! Your head's up your arse half the time, that's your trouble!

Fact-check: The note on the calendar reads, '1.00 p.m. ladies.'

Both parties claim this vindicates their position.

The Ladies

"What did you think that meant?" she asks, handing me a clean towel. Actually, throwing me a clean towel. Actually, throwing a clean towel at me. "The band's called Cherish the Ladies. There's a clue there if you think about it."

I'm hopping about on one leg trying to get the other into my boxers. I feel at a disadvantage. It's hard to conduct a row with any real gravitas when you're struggling with your underpants.

"I thought it meant you were meeting your friends for lunch!"

"Right!" she says, in a tone that gives me reason to believe she doesn't think it's right at all. "Because I always refer to my friends as 'ladies', don't I? We are the ladies who lunch, aren't we? Hello, ladies! How are we today?"

She's not very good at sarcasm, in my opinion. Lays it on a bit too thick.

I decide to give my torso the body spray treatment. It is my birthday, after all. In my haste, I don't check where the nozzle is pointing. I take a blast of Chanel Allure Homme Sport full in the face.

"Aw, fuck off!" I say to the Chanel bottle.

"Excuse me?" she says from outside the bathroom door.

"Not you!" I say, splashing my eyes with water. "I've just sprayed my face with deodorant. Anyway, how could I possibly know there's a band called Cherish the Ladies? I'm not an expert on these bands, am I? I mean, Cherish the Ladies! What does that even mean?"

"It's the name of a traditional jig," she replies. "Surprised you don't know that. You asked the same question when we saw them in The Mac last year. You loved them."

Okay, you've lost. Change tack quickly. Act like you've been having a discussion, not a row.

"That's why the name sounds familiar!" I say, emerging from the bathroom. "I did like them, didn't I?"

She hands me my shoes. "It starts in ten minutes. Move!"

We're out the door and into the car. Fortunately, traffic is light. We make it to the venue and squeeze in just before things get going. We grab a drink, sit down and start to relax.

We have a great time. Cherish the Ladies are truly excellent. If you like traditional Irish music, you won't get better.

Later, we'll chuckle about the misunderstanding. What are we like, we'll say. The stupid things we row about, we'll say. All's well that ends well, we'll agree.

But I still think that note on the calendar was a cryptic clusterfuck.