Birthday suit

The challenge is on. Tomorrow is my birthday. Every birthday for the last three years (excepting the last one) has gone like this:

I get up for work and have a lovely shower. As I turn the shower off, I'm gradually aware that a phone is ringing. I listen harder. It is my landline, in my living room. No time for towelling before voicemail cuts off my early-morning caller, I rush into my living room, my wet feet skid on my wooden floor, and in an attempt to regain balance, I smack my knee against my desk. In considerable pain I grab the phone and answer proudly, just in time.

Then I realise that I am standing totally naked in front of my living room window. And I didn't draw the curtains last night. My knee is bleeding a bit.

"Happy birthday!" shout a ridiculously cheerful Mr and Mrs Nunn down the phone to me.

Mindful that this had happened three years in a row, last year I (cunningly) briefed them, telling them that this time I would call them. Yet, as I turned the shower off, on 17 October last year, sure enough I heard the phone ringing.

I dashed across the hall, skidded into the living room, smacked my leg across the desk, got to the phone just in time... realised I was naked in front of open windows... "Happy birthday!" said Hazel.

Ah well, tis good to have good friends and good family, and it entertains the neighbours once a year. This year, I'm taking precautions. I'm off to draw the curtains.