The clock struck midnight (a minute ago) and my phone rang. I picked up.
B: (singing) Happy birthday to you, happy birthday...
I: It's a day early, moron.
B: No, you moron, it's the eighth.
I: Look at the calendar, you illiterate twit.
B: You turn on the tv.
I: I'm looking at a calendar and it says my birthday is on the Sunday, that's the eighth, fuckface.
B: No, it's on Saturday, that's the eighth. Moron.
I: Look, people have been calling me up asking me what I'm doing on Sunday.
B: Oh... no! It's the eighth, it's the eighth... it's the --
I: (breaking in before he broke a blood vessel) No, you mutt, it's the seventh.
B: (lamely) It is? Oh man, I got it wrong again.
I: (soothingly) You can always call me again tomorrow, you know.
B: Yeah, of course I could and find out it's not midnight yet or it's next month, or eighth July doesn't exist this year or some other bureaucratic cockup.
Before I end, there is something I have to add. B and I dated for three years. Halfway through that time, I went to his house one day and saw, marked on his wall calendar in bold, "Sue's Birthday". It was, not surprisingly, marked on the eighth of August.
I think, given his record, his effort this year wasn't too bad. Thanks Beq, you supuri-bhora pan, you.