I had the chance to exorcise a ghost from birthdays past yesterday, albeit through my son.
We were at Jamie's beautiful little cousin Holly's sixth birthday party (that's her ladyship above), and had a very nice time.
Towards the end of the afternoon, the moment came to play pass the parcel. Cue my painful memory.
I was a similar age to Holly and, like her, it was my own party I was attending. We were also playing pass the parcel, in my case, under the guidance of my sisters. And, to cut a long story short, I was fortunate enough (or so I thought) to get to take the last piece of wrapping paper off the prize which, I remember very clearly, was a Mars bar. However, one of my sisters swiftly ruled that, as the birthday boy, I was ineligible to win - and made me hand my booty to wee Sammy Connor sitting beside me. I ran off downstairs in tears and, in truth, part of me has been crying ever since.
So back to yesterday. I've never seen Jamie play pass the parcel before. And, if he has played it before, he'd clearly forgotten the rules as he began by looking a bit on the destitute side.
Eventually, the parcel came his way - thereby raising his interest levels - before being quickly nipped back off him and passed to his right by his mum. He was cool with that.
Truncating this story too (I'll bet you wish I did this more often), it went round five or six times, all kiddies present had the chance to take off one sheet of paper and win some chocolate, before it came to the final round featuring some very exciting blue wrapping paper.
And, yes, you've guessed the rest. The prize - a Thomas The Tank Engine - was Jamie's.
Given that the other two male participants were already proud owners of a Thomas the Tank Engine and Holly didn't want one, you might think that the outcome of this particular game of pass the parcel had been fixed.
But no more so than that fateful afternoon more than 30 years ago when wee Sammy Connor nicked my Mars bar.
So, on behalf of my son, I'm both relaxed and very, very happy with the result.
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