Once it snowed on Smiggy's birthday

I used to love going to school on my birthday. I’d cover my school tie with badges until one year I must have thought well maybe I’m too old for badges now. I’d choose a present to take in with me. A computer thing. New football boots. A yoyo to play with while our form tutor was calling out the register. Something to show my friends in the playground. Maybe I’d wear my new tracksuit top over my school shirt and I wouldn’t get in trouble because we were all allowed to do that kind of thing on our birthday.

The worst thing about having to go to school on your birthday is when people didn’t realise it was your birthday. Walking down the school corridor it felt like every teacher should know. Even the school governors should be making special appearances. You spent very second of the day thinking someone was about to burst out from a cupboard or from round the corner with balloons and streamers. It felt like you were only ever seven feet away from a party popper. Even when you get a bit older it can feel disappointing when people don’t say happy birthday. It’s engrained from childhood. Even walking down the street on the afternoon of your thirty-third birthday you think well I’m not getting much recognition here. You feel like even strangers should instinctively know it’s your birthday.  I blame the overfriendliness of my primary school.

My friend Smiggy never went to school on his birthday. His parents were fine with that. They’d have been furious if he’d even tried. His dad never went to school on his birthday either. God knows whether Smiggy will ever get around to having children but if he does there is one thing for certain and that is they will not be up and dressed in their school uniform on the morning of their birthday. They’ll probably be at the zoo or surfing or in bed eating pizza. But I liked going to school on my birthday. I liked any time I could go to school and there was something unusual about it.

Once it snowed on Smiggy’s birthday. AND it was a Saturday! We were all so jealous. My mum came into my room that morning, opened my curtains and said ‘It’s snowing!’ and I said ‘AND it’s Smiggy’s birthday!’ He was supposed to be having a party at the leisure centre – the one with the flumes - but his mum phoned all the mums and said I think they’d prefer to all go out in the snow. Smiggy had a sledge (of course he did) and so did a boy called Gareth who I didn’t like very much. He didn’t own any trainers he always wore shoes but his mum was friends with Smiggy’s mum and so we had to play with him sometimes and you should have seen him at the top of that hill saying ‘Who wants to have a go on my sledge!’ he may as well have been releasing £50 notes into the air or Marilyn Monroe and JFK holding hands shouting out ‘Come on guys take some photos!’

So instead of the party at the leisure centre for Smiggy’s birthday we went to the recreation ground in our bobble hats and scarves with the snow three quarters up to the top of our wellies. Me and Smiggy and all our other friends from our class (and Gareth) were having fun sledging down the big hill when we saw across the field there were the boys from the other school. The. Other. School. We always called them Blue Shirts because they had to wear blue shirts as part of their school uniforms, not white shirts like us. We had to do it. A snowball fight with the other school. If we could destroy them we would be playground heroes for decades.

We huddled. Gareth, a meek and pale child had suddenly become Lord Nelson as we planned how to approach the blue shirts who were building a snowman and had no idea that it was about to be a FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT. We developed a plan and like any great leader it was Gareth who launched the first snowball and then he was running at them and barking out instructions of who should flank him either side and who should hide behind trees and who should be allocated specifically to sculpt snowballs for the conveyor belt towards the two people who were the best at throwing (obviously Smiggy) and a boy called Dale whose dad was American. The language little Gareth was using was in danger of melting the snow. Dale could hardly throw his snowballs because he was laughing so much at what was coming out of Gareth’s mouth. Gareth’s sister Clair was sent to rally up more troops, knock on any door of anyone in our class to say ‘We are fighting the blue shirts!’ and I don’t know how she pitched it to their parents but every thirty seconds more reinforcements arrived, an archer at every battlement and when Gareth shouted THROW you should have seen the blue shirts retreat and scream and retreat and scream and retreat. There were a few brave soldiers on the blue shirt’s team who didn’t realise our strength in depth who kept on fighting determined not to be on the losing team but they had underestimated Smiggy’s willingness to grab people in a headlock and stuff the freshly ploughed snow down the backs of their anoraks treating their cries of stop, stop as oh go on please put a little bit more snow down my spine.

Soon they had all gone. We couldn’t believe it. No more blue shirts. Nothing is more pleasurable than seeing your enemies running away from you as fast as they can, most of them crying. Smiggy had his top off and was beating his chest shouting COME ON THEN COME OVER HERE COME ON OH THAT’S RIGHT RUN AWAY! I remember standing there with a freshly made snowball in my far-too-big-for-me gloves thinking I’m glad I’m on this team.

I don’t see Smiggy anymore. As soon as he’d finished his last A-level exam he moved away to a place called London. But I bet it still snows on his birthday sometimes. I think about it every January 20^th. And inspired by him I can’t remember the last time I went to work on my birthday.