LIFE

My Father Cancelled My Birthday From Eight To Eighteen

How for ten years, I blew my candles out alone

From the age of seven until the age of nineteen, I never had a birthday at home. Three weeks before my eighth birthday, my father sent me to boarding school. And as my birthday always fell during term time, I ate my cake alone.

Although not quite alone.

In the school were 100 other boys, so there was always someone to help me blow out the candles. Even though having your birthday was a nerve-wracking experience.

At the evening meal, the headmaster would bang his knife on the table, everyone would stand up instantly, and one of the kitchen ladies would bring out a cake for the ‘lucky’ boy.

Everybody would sing Happy Birthday, before the headmaster lit the candles with his gold Carlton lighter, gave the boy a card from the school, containing a £1 book token, and waited for the hapless boy to blow the candles out.

If he failed in the first attempt, there would be a huge cheer, and then another, as the boy tried to blow the rest out. Then he would sit down to eat his cake, dividing the other slices up between the boys on his table, which was eight. Always eight, unless someone had been expelled or was ill.

The cakes were always the same. A simple Victoria Sponge filled with sickly sweet jam. But it was better than the usual dessert, so if you had a lot of birthdays on your table, it was a bonus.

Saying that, birthdays for most of us were pretty miserable. And just reminded us of the time when we had birthdays at home, surrounded by family and friends. Now there were just loads of other boys — there were no girls at our school.

After the cake, the day carried on as normal, depending on what day it was. If your birthday was on a weekday, we went to the prep-rooms where we did our homework, then played outside for a bit, or kicked a ball around in the gym if it was dark. If it was the weekend, we could play out for an hour longer.

Boarding school life is pretty regimented, and you soon fall into a remorseless routine. Same school, same friends, same masters, same birthdays, for ten long years.

When I met my wife, she was shocked — almost worried — how I could fall into such hard-and-fast routines so quickly. And maintain them.

She was my boss at the language school I worked at in Lyon. After a month, I’d wedged myself into such a firm routine that when the timetable changed — as they regularly did— it threw me off completely. My whole life disrupted because some student wanted to have an evening class instead of a morning class.

This really screwed things up for me, as I was used to finishing my classes at six, and heading to a bar on the Rue Lafayette. So finishing at eight was a real drag, as most of the bars in that part of town had closed by then, meaning I had to traipse further into town for my fix.

I’m a bit better now, but old habits die hard, and I still hate my routines being changed. I’ve moved around a lot, working in different places and countries for nearly thirty years. And yet, once I’m somewhere, I quickly fall into a routine as though I’ve lived there all my life.

On some of those birthdays at school, my grandfather would roll up, as he didn’t live too far away, and bring presents. We would sit together in the car park while I unwrapped them. Then I thanked him, and I went back in to wait a few more weeks until half-term, when my father would collect me and take me out for a belated birthday meal.

I never said anything at the time. I was just happy I had a week off school. But deep down, I was full of anger and resentment. Not only had my mother died, but now I had to endure boarding school. Didn’t seem like a great deal to me!

My dad loses his wife — SAD! — but gets to keep his job and friends. I lose my mum — SAD! — and have to spend birthdays alone.

I tried talking to my father about it over the years, but the answer was always the same:

“Difficult decisions had to be made.”

As though his approach to parenting was the same as running a business. A percentage game, where decisions are made based on figures, not emotions. How can I juggle my family and job, and still get a promotion!

My father needed his job to support us, I understand that, but I didn’t need to be sent to school. There were plenty of other options. I went to school because it was easier. With my mum dead, having me around was an inconvenience. Even if he didn’t really think that, that’s how it felt.

I can say these things now, because he’s dead. And even though I miss him, I’m still angry at him for leaving me at school. Leaving me to blow out my candles alone when I should have been surrounded by my family and friends.

That’s what birthdays are for. To make you feel special, wanted, needed, important. And with the loss of my mother, I needed that even more.

Because however hard all those 100 other boys tried. However hard the masters and the kitchen ladies tried to make me feel at home, it was never enough. Because all a child ever needs, is love.

Thanks to the great Victor Cardenas for the prompt from his superb article below.

Thanks for reading. Fore more angst, see