I feel like a really bad brother, because I forgot both of my little sisters’ birthdays during the last week (prefer not to overly analyse the fact that both my sisters’ birthdays are exactly eight months after my parents’ anniversary). I’ve sent them apologetic emails - they’re hard to contact by phone, which makes me feel even worse - one of them is living overseas and hard to contact at the best of times, and the other is so clinically depressed she’d probably wail and cut to Something for Kate b-sides at the very mention of “I got you an iPod shuffle as a present”. So my guilt’s been emailed to them, along with rambling (albeit truthful) excuses on how shit I am with dates.

Although it’s not quite as embarassing as my annual screw-up of my dad’s birthday. My dad’s birthday is on ANZAC Day, yet my scatterbrained mental filing system tags this simply as “day to do with war”. This means I’m phoning my dad on an annual basis on the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month, to inappropriately bellow “HAPPY BIRTHDAY MATE!”

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