Birthdays. That pesky little thing that comes around once a year. Before the age of three, you do not even know you are having one. Between the ages of three and, I suppose, 21, it is just the most exciting thing that can happen to you. Thereafter, it just comes around once a year, until eventually you would rather not be reminded of them at all.

Colin is having one of those this week. Oh, how old is he going to be? Old enough, to be older and wiser, I hope. But knowing Colin, he will have some offbeat comments about not being old at all. The scary thing is, I know what he is going to look at the age of 80. You see, family genetics is a funny thing. If you were to look at a photo of Colin, and a photo of his Dad at the same age, and a photo of our oldest son, again at the same age, you may be tempted to think that it is the same person.

I came into the Scott clan in a strange sort of way. Colin and I do not have a regular love story, but that I will have to save for another day. It involved Colin taking up a post in Botswana, perhaps it was going to be his last adventure before being a responsible adult took preference, maybe he felt he had wild oats to sow. Only he can tell. But, as always, Man Plans and God Laughs. Which is precisely why at this stage of Colin’s life, I too went to Botswana. Just maybe it was also going to be my last adventure and maybe I had a bit of my own oats, you never know.

For many reasons, I first met (in person) Colin’s parents when we were already married, and oldest son was a few months old. One afternoon, Colin’s Dad had dosed off in his chair, with his head slumped to the left. The sleeping bug also reached Colin, who dosed off in a chair next to his Dad, head slumped the left. Oldest Son, then only still a very little baby in his baby seat next to Colin’s chair, also dosed off, with his head – yup, you’ve got it! – to the left. The two mothers had a laugh at this, and we took a photo, which was to be captioned: like Father, like Son, like Son.

Had either of us done our research before going to Botswana, we would have known that Botswana is mainly a producer of beef. They do grow some pulses, such as beans, sunflowers, wheat, cotton and lucerne, but not oats. Least of all, wild oats. If you go sowing wild oats into the wrong soil, you must be prepared for what is going to come your way. Needless to say, I do not think either of us regrets it. (Depending, of course, when you ask!)

Now, how you celebrate your birthday will depend on where you celebrate it. If you were to find yourself in Hungary or Argentina, you may have your ears pulled. In Australia, you would eat Fairy Bread. That is white bread and butter, with colourful sprinkles on top. OK? The Aussie interpretation of birthday cake? In the big White North of Canada, you will have your nose greased with butter. This apparently will ward off bad luck. In China, you will be served a bowl of longevity noodles. So, then, I can combine all of these traditions into one for Colin’s birthday.

I can wake him up by pulling his ears. For breakfast, a slice of Fairy Bread. Lunch will be a swipe of butter on the nose, and he can end the day off with a bowl of Two Minute Noodles. Sounds good to me. Or we can just be traditional and eat cake. A cake with no birthday candles on it. If we were to put candles on it, it would have to be an excessively big cake, and there are only two of us to eat it. In which case, we can have our cake, and eat it…Or something like that…

In previous blogs, I told you about Colin and his hat. The one that seldom leaves his head. Unfortunately, his trusted friend and him parted ways on a trip back from Zimbabwe. Somehow, the hat got left behind, and all best efforts to find it, have failed. It makes buying Colin a birthday gift extremely easy, I thought. I can get him a new hat. Oh, boy. Easier said than done. I started by asking Aunty Google: Leather hats, Hermanus area. Aunty Google has been captured. She got hijacked and taken hostage by TEMU. For my sins, Temu now knows that I exist. I took myself off to the only mall in Hermanus. That created a new problem. You see, Colin is not into Rugby, and in South Africa, a hat is an indication of which rugby team you support. Had I been looking for a floppy hat, a cap, or a beanie, it would not be a challenge. Finding a leather hat to make a slightly aging Scot look distinguished-whilst keeping the sun from his pale skin, is more of a challenge.

So, here it is:

Tomorrow morning, I will wake Colin up by pulling his ear. I will then sing Happy birthday to him, trying my best interpretation of a breathless Marilyn Monroe, and I will present him with his ultimate birthday surprise: He is now a proud Blue Bull Rugby supporter!

Unfortunately, the Lions and the Cheetahs did not have his size in stock.

Happy birthday, Colin!