It’s his birthday too – only his is more important, because he’s older (much, much older). He’s forty years old today, which means he pretty much now functions only as living history, a walking ancestor (until age and decrepitude finally claim him, of course).
Mark has had to put up with me since he got me as a present on his 8th birthday (he also got a bike, so don’t feel too sorry for him. I never got a bike.)
Judging from the photographic evidence of the period, I seem to have made him carry me everywhere.
Perhaps more worryingly, Mark was a child in the joyless 1970s. For those fortunate enough to be born in more recent years, these dark times are perhaps best left forgotten – although some records remain. Pity the poor children who were forced to dress like this:
As if this wasn’t burden enough, he then became a teenager… in the ’80s.
The less said about that, the better – I don’t think he’s ever entirely recovered.
Although I never had to share Mark’s naff fashion sense (I I grew up in the much more fashionable 1980s and 90s, you see) -
- we have had to share many things over the years – mostly birthday cards. And cake. And the occasional present (because children born eight years apart can totally play with the same thing…). I like to think that the snowman was entirely Mark’s doing and that I just turned up to encourage his lacklustre attempt (while secretly laughing at how shit it was).
Oh and Mark – you may have been to the Zoo (I haven’t), but that AT-AT you got for Christmas?
It’s my AT-AT now…
(Happy birthday bro!)