Every damned year

Well it's rolled up around again: The birthday de Beattie. Bum compleano, my old friend. And here's the conversation we have each year.

Me: So what do you want for your birthday.

Beattie: (slumped in a somewhat eel-like posture, resting on whatever it is he has instead of a spine) I don't know.

Me: There must be something you want.

Beattie: Can't think of anything I want.

Me: Something you need then.

Beattie: A million pounds. World peace. Broadminded twins.

Me: Oh, you mordant wit. See my sides a-splitting up. Help, it hurts. No, really - what do you want?

Beattie: Surprise me.

Me: Well, give me a hint at least.

Beattie: It wouldn't be a surprise then, would it?

Me: Just a nudge into the right ballpark.

Beattie: Anything.

Me: Socks?

Beattie: Socks. Surprise socks. I'd be overwhelmed. No, a surprise.

Me: You want a surprise?

Beattie: Yes. A surprise would be lovely. I'd be very appreciative of a surprise.

Me: Just a surprise?

Beattie: Yes. That's right a surprise.

Me: Not a particular kind of surprise.

Beattie: A surprising surprise.

Me: Not even a teeny little hint?

Beattie: No. Just a surprise.

Me: Are you sure?

Beattie: Yes.

Me: A surprise, eh?

Beattie: That's right. Something really really surprising would be great.

Me: Something you're not expecting?

Beattie: By George, I think he's got it!

So when he was out I smeared jam between the sheets on his side of the bed.

Happy birthday, Beattie! Enjoy your jammy jim-jams!