The Birthday [Bedroom] Bumps.

“Time’s running out, guys. Will any brave, generous soul be charitable enough to hook up with my friend before the cruelties of time ravage her beyond all hope?” - Charlie. May 2026.

Once again finding myself unable to combat the crushing inevitability of entropy, I turned a year older last week. Not a significant birthday milestone by any means, but one that’s nevertheless introduced a minor degree of creeping dread, seeing as it’s the last before I’ll statistically ‘round up’ to a more significant set of digits.

Not that I’m remotely anxiety ridden about the notion of getting older, of course. Not least because, in my mind, I’m still little more than a student living her best - continuously extending, like a gap year that’ll never end - studenty lifestyle, and not at all a woman rapidly approaching (if indeed now not already technically *in*) her mid-thirties, desperately attempting to cling on to the halcyon days of her youth, terrified that she still doesn’t have the first clue how to go about any of this so-called ‘adulting’ lark…

And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise!

As tradition dictates, a birthday celebration in our friendship group involves at least one obligatory night out which has two very specific goals:

1) To embarrass the person celebrating on at least half a dozen occasions.

2) To get the birthday individual as intoxicated as possible to ease them through the existential dread of turning another year older.

On occasions wherein the individual also happens to find themselves single, a third goal is also added to the list. Albeit one that often seems somewhat counterintuitive to the other two:

3) Get them laid.

I’m sure it will surprise precisely no one to learn that, this birthday, I continued to find myself devastatingly single. The following is my somewhat hazy, but best recollection of what ensued.

My friends are utterly wonderful people. Kind, generous, thoughtful and effortlessly hilarious. There are no ends I will not go to in order continue having their magnificent and joyful presence in my life.

They are also utterly devious bitches upon whom, one day, I will reap a terrible revenge.

As we were to be celebrating my day of birth, I’d been allowed to pick the ‘tone’ of the evening. Whether it’d be a drunken and debauched alcohol-fest in the manner of the student lifestyle in which we’d all met, an activity packed evening of crazy golf and inebriated escape room solving, a relaxing night time spa session or something else entirely.

As it happened I’d already enjoyed a lovely spa experience the day prior, and even I’m not so excessively middle class to be able to fully enjoy two spas in two days. Given that I’ve also completed and, in all but one dreadful instance, hit the leaderboards of every local escape room, it felt like our options were somewhat limited.

Fearing my ever-advancing years may make any attempt to repcapture the student days look a little ‘desperate’, I declared we should all don our finest dresses and enjoy a very civilised and classy evening in a cocktail bar. Yes, we would drink, but we’d also all look resplendent and have something of a more mature and, dare I say, ‘adult’ evening as is becoming of a group of women in their early to mid thirties.

It all started so well. Everyone had fulfilled the brief admirably and turned out in their finest collection of cocktail dresses and evening-wear. I’d gone for a new ‘little black dress’ that both fulfilled the duties of being a ‘HIAATAMT’ spectacle (‘Hi, I’m Alice, and these are my tits), whilst simultaneously being one of the shortest items of clothing I own. I was only slightly put out to see that Charlie was wearing a stunning green number that somehow managed to be even shorter than my own.

With the whole gang having deployed their A-game, we ventured out on the town toward our first cocktail bar and what would undoubtedly be a very classy evening indeed.

The first warning signs shenanigans were afoot occurred just before we stepped inside in the bar. Charlie declared we should briefly wait outside while she would dash in solo to ‘check there was room for us all’. An obvious piece of bullshit.

Suddenly my heart sunk. Fuck. Was this a surprise party? Were we about step inside the venue for me to be jump-scared by family I’d feel obliged to behave in front of and friends I’ve not seen in years? Would I be forced to spend the evening circulating and socialising with folk I’d not expressly invited on my birthday night out?

No. I’d have seen the warning signs long before now. My friends are sneaky, but such organisational endeavours leave a paper trail, and I’d have managed to put together the pieces and bully the truth out of someone prior to everyone shouting ‘SURPRISE’ and me having to pretend to look shocked.

But if not that, then what? Hopefully not a birthday banner in the style of a children’s party. That’d be tacky and tasteless and, fuck, precisely the kind of thing these bitches would do to just embarrass me on my tasteful and classy attempt at a night out.

As it turned out, I was wrong. What they’d prepared was much worse.

Charlie emerged from the bar beaming, holding an enormous gift box.

“The final touch for a mature and classy celebration” she said, gesturing for me to open the box.

I did so, and was immediately struck in the face by the contents.

A balloon.

An excessively large helium balloon.

An excessively large helium ballon which read:

Another year closer to being an unapproachable cat lady!

Reader, forgive my crudeness, but I believe that was the moment I declared all my dearest friends to be ‘Utter cunts’.

Well, it was either then or when they proceeded to tie the balloon around my waist and insist that, were I to take it off at any stage, they had forfeits already prepared. Forfeits that, even though I wasn’t even a willing participant in the game, they knew I’d abide by because I’m so stupidly stubborn and competitive.

Bitches. I’d have thrown a not insignificant temper tantrum were it not for the fact that the scheme was objectively hilarious, I’ve done worse to all of them and it was my birthday and I was now far too mature for that kind of thing.

And so with enormous dignity, and a fucking great big colourful balloon tied to me, I entered the classy cocktail bar for my mature night of civilised fun.

Mercifully, awaiting me inside there was no surprise party. No banners. Nothing gaudy. Just an already reserved table and a birthday cupcake with a candle in it.

The candle wasn’t *lit* of course, due to the fire risk posed by the helium balloon attached to me. A fact Charlie found infuriating and Lisa felt was both excellent and diligent health and safety standards.

I, meanwhile, laughed so hard it brought tears to me eyes.

Several hours of glorious drinking, conversing, reminiscing and well-meaning ridicule ensued. I don’t know what it is about birthdays in particular, but they always seem to bring out an edited highlights package of your greatest and most spectacular fails for discussion.

However, being reminded of incidents when I had a hooked up but went back to the wrong bedroom after a bathroom visit, offered to wank a guy off for his tube of Pringles or indeed ruined speed dating with an inappropriate handjob offer, are like water off a duck’s back. I delight as much in their nostalgia as anyone. Hell, these three examples alone are only a few clicks away from you being able to enjoy the occasional farce that is my sex-life too!

But having waited until I was just tipsy enough to not be able to vault the table to stop her, Charlie stood to enact another tradition of hers. A tradition that only ever is used on my birthday outings. Something she’s done for every birthday on which I’ve found myself single since my early twenties. The exact wording changes every year, but the intention is always the same.

She stepped up onto the table and declared at full volume, which for Charlie and her remarkable lung capacity ensured not only everyone in the bar could hear it, but likely everyone along the street too:

“Time’s running out, guys! Will any brave, generous soul be charitable enough to hook up with my friend before the cruelties of time ravage her beyond all hope?”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this somewhat divided the room. There was a sizeable portion of nervous laughter as the folk who hadn’t really been paying attention wondered what the drunken lady was doing stood on the table. There were the inevitable ‘tut’ers, who quietly wondered why the kind of woman that stands on tables had been allowed in the establishment in the first place.

And then there were the cheers. Some from the generically inebriated who were cheering in much the same way they might have done if a glass had smashed. Some from guys who were already eagerly nudging and elbowing their friends to ‘take a punt’, and some from optimistic individuals who themselves wondered if the hookup gods had delivered them a treat, and it was to be their lucky night.

Since Charlie has deployed this same tactic for over a decade - and yes, you’re right to wonder how she could possibly still be breathing after all this time. The simple answer; she’s far scrappier than me. I’m not convinced it’s a fight I’d even come close to winning, especially since the element of surprise wouldn’t be on my side - I’ve learned how to best and most effectively deal with the aftermath of her ‘Call of Desperation’.

Invariably, the first few respondents rarely tend to be the cream of the crop. They’re usually just a little too eager. Or whiff as strongly of desperation as the callout itself. I pride myself on always being unfailing polite when declining their attention, it is after all Charlie who invited them into the situation and so the blame (for once) is not on the men.

That said, I did have to bite my tongue very hard when the second man to approach me deployed the opening gambit:

'“I don’t know what your friend is talking about. You don’t look THAT old!”

He’s lucky to have lived through the night.

Generally speaking, the guys who approach because they’ve been egged on by their friends are more enjoyable to engage with than those trying their luck of their own volition. It’s likely something to do with the immediate connection of ‘our friends have got us into this situation, we’re merely passengers along for the ride’ that makes for a shared bond and a soft launch into conversation.

Some guys however are entirely without hope. There’s often one standout each year and this one was a doozy. Having heard the call, Mac (almost certainly not his name, but he later left wearing a Macintosh coat, so it’s as good a name as any) bided his time. He sat for over an hour with his friend who, as far as I can tell, was actively dissuading him from ‘having a go’ before he finally made his move.

Mac bought himself a fortifying drink and then purchased what appeared to be a random cocktail from the menu (It turned out, in fact, not to be random but specifically selected to be the cheapest on a the menu. A fact the barman delighted in sharing with us all later). Mac then strode with magnificent purpose towards our table, during which Charlie noticed he’d managed to take a substantial swig from both glasses.

“You are absolutely stunning, you know that? Properly old school beautiful. And I know your friend there was probably doing this just to embarrass you, but I actually think it’s kinda’ sweet and rather than being embarrassed you should make the most of the opportunity and let me buy you a drink.”

He produced the drink he’d been holding the entire time and had made no attempt whatsoever to conceal.

“Oh, look at that, I’ve already got you one! Happy birthday!”

Now, reader, at this point you’re perhaps thinking ‘Hmm. This Mac fellow has made some choices that I wouldn’t personally have made, but I don’t see what he’s done that’s catapulted him into the “entirely without hope” category.’ Well, dear reader, let me enlighten you.

Whilst Mac conducted his little monologue, Charlie was fighting to hold back her hysterical laughter so hard, I genuinely thought she was going to wet herself, Jess looked more confused than I’ve ever seen her, and Lisa was cringing so hard I had to briefly wonder if it was possible to expire from second hand awkwardness.

I was trapped somewhere between all of these different responses; both finding the situation hilarious and baffling but stifling my laughter as I was also genuinely perplexed wondering if it was some elaborate joke, and already pre-cringing if it wasn’t.

But what was it about the situation that rendered us all in such a state?

Mac delivered his entire chat up routine to JESS.

Yes, reader, he’d somehow picked the wrong target for his attentions despite the fact I WAS LITERALLY TIED TO A FUCKING HUGE BIRTHDAY BALLOON.

As he finished there was an awkward pause so gaping that it may have aged me another ten years.

Jess managed to form a half smile, striking a balance between endearing and pitying.

“That’s really sweet. But it’s not my birthday. It’s hers.” she said, pointing at me while she swiftly downed the rest of the nearest cocktail to hand.

Mac glanced over at me dismissively, as though he’d just been given the brush off and I was being used as an excuse. It was at this moment he properly clocked the balloon still tied around my waist.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so entirely lose his swagger and confidence in such a lightning strike single moment. The colour drained from his face like he’d sprung a leak.

He stood, frozen, all eyes on him - except Lisa’s who was covering her face, entirely unable to look at the spectacle - while he tried to calculate his outs.

For a tiny fraction of a second, I thought he was maybe about to wish me a happy birthday and then turn back to continue chatting up Jess as though nothing had happened.

I was half right.

“Happy birthday.” he said in a voice so broken and quiet it could’ve come from an impoverished mouse trapped down a well. He downed his drink in a single gulp and walked straight out of the bar without another word.

“Damn,” I said, looking squarely at Jess. “Looks like we’ve both missed out there!”

It took us all several minutes to recover from the hysterics. During which time Mac’s friend, who’d been unceremoniously abandoned, wandered over our way holding Mac’s jacket, which he’d seemingly been happy to leave behind such was the urgnecy of his departure.

“I’m going to remind him of this every single day for the next ten years, minimum.” Said Mac’s friend with a beaming smile.

Now. Maybe it was the after-effects of the hysteria. Maybe it was the enormous number of cocktails I’d consumed by this hour of the evening. Or maybe it was the fact that this was the first man to speak to me in a while that wasn’t overtly trying to hit on me due to Charlie’s offer.

Whatever it was, Mac’s friend looked GOOD.

Handsome jawline, sparkling blue eyes, broad shoulders kinda good.

The sort of good that very much had my brain whirring to find reasons to convince him to forget his friend, stay for a drink with us and let me look at him some more.

Sadly, having already consumed far too many cocktails, my brain wasn’t exactly operating at optimum capacity, and I couldn’t in the moment think of a witty reason to put forward to keep him around.

“Love the balloon.” he said as he walked past me.

I was a fucking idiot. This was the one day of the year I didn’t need an elaborate excuse. It was my birthday!

“Do you not fancy staying for a birthday drink?” I said, hoping not to sound too eager. “I’m sure your friend will come back for you eventually!”

He stopped and turned to look back at me, flashing a smile that had me biting my bottom lip.

“I could maybe stay for one more, give him some time to recover.” he said, joining us at our table. “So I can remind him of it all over again just as he’s started to relax!”

“Fuck yes! Someone to finally give the birthday bumps!”

I was about to chastise Charlie for being so vulgar. Until I realised I’d been the one to declare it. I made a mental note I was clearly long past the point of possessing any subtlety.

Jess asked the newcomers name.

“Damien.” he said.

“Well that’s a good omen!” I retorted, embarrassingly laughing at my own joke before I’d finished delivering it.

Damien didn’t laugh. He’d probably heard lines like it hundreds of times before. I didn’t care. He smiled politely at my effort. That was enough.

Several hours later and I found myself on my bed, my back arching and some truly ungodly sounds emanating from my throat while Damien was working some devil’s magic.

As it turned out, he had been a very good omen indeed…

To be continued…

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