The curse of having a birthday in the midst of Christmas!

WHEN people learn that my birthday is on Christmas Eve, the reaction falls into two distinct camps: sentimentalists and realists.

The sentimentalists gush about how nice it must be to have been born so close to Christmas, and how my parents must have been thrilled to have such an early present.

Realists will quickly sympathise about the other side of the coin... receiving one present covering both days, and seeing your big day lost in the festive merry-go-round.

I mean, would you throw a birthday party on December 24?

Act 1: When a child is born

My father was a realist in every sense. I am pretty sure that once I had been safely delivered into this world, his next thought would have turned to the serious question of who was going to be cooking Christmas dinner!

Having a son and heir to keep the family name going was all very well, but the accident of my birth meant severe disruption to the family’s festive routine.

My mother was an excellent cook, but was totally exhausted after the lengthy process of giving birth. My father, a sensitive man, did not expect her to struggle out of the nursing home bed the next day, return home and embark on the laborious business of cooking after the laborious business of giving birth.

That left his mother in charge of the kitchen, an indifferent cook who firmly believed boiling or roasting food for an hour longer than the recipes suggested was the best way to be sure it was well cooked, and any bugs in it had definitely gone to meet their maker.

A Christmas dinner consisting of dried out turkey, over-cooked ham and incinerated roast potatoes was something my father had considered normal until he got married and my mother’s culinary skills taught him otherwise. However, the Christmas of my birth he was saved by the arrival of my maternal grandmother, from whom my mother acquired her skills. She cooked the meats, my other grandmother did the potatoes and veg, and with tactful guidance did less damage than usual.

Act 2: We come bearing gift(s)

Time passed, and by the time I was eight, I’d become accustomed to receiving gifts on my birthday, accompanied by a colourful card wishing me both a happy birthday and a happy Christmas.

As an only child growing up in Glasheen, I was innocent of the fact that two major events were being lumped in together and I was getting only one present instead of two.

That this was a cunning trick on the part of my family was pointed out to me one day in the school playground. A group of us were wishing a buddy happy birthday, and began discussing the best and worst birthdays of the year. We decided a ‘cat’ birthday fell in Lent during days of fast and abstinence from meat, and it was then I realised being born on or around Christmas meant I was being short-changed in the gifts department.

When I got home, I began making demands on my parents for separate gifts for my next birthday and Christmas. Of course, there was consternation at this development, my mother wanted to know who’d put me up to it. I’d been warned by my schoolmates this might happen, and gave her the answer they had recommended: “Everyone!” I refused to name names and withdraw my demands, and learned perseverance works.

On my ninth birthday, and on all birthdays after, parents and relatives came up with two separate gifts for me.

Act 3: No room at the inn

As an adult, one of my major cribs was that my birthday was a sideshow in the hustle and bustle of last minute Yule shopping. I thought it might be different in other countries.

Having finished up at UCC with a Higher Diploma in Education, I went to Germany and got a job lecturing in English at the Federal Teacher Training College in Schwäbisch Gmünd, a beautiful town 50km east of Stuttgart. Here I discovered that, however rushed and squeezed in during panic shopping an Irish Christmas Eve birthday might be, a German one was even worse.

I befriended Jim Brandenburg, an American teacher living in Gmünd. We both appreciated good music, good food and good wine and enjoyed checking out restaurants.

One October night, in a student pub, inspired by a couple of Viertele (quarter litre glasses) of Swabian red wine, we decided to stay in Gmünd for Christmas and enjoy a fine lunch in our favourite restaurant on Christmas Eve - Kübele. It served delicious food, excellent beers on draught, and had a keenly priced wine list.

We planned that lunch in advance, drooling as we pictured our chosen dishes being placed in front of us by a smiling waiter wishing us Guten Appetit!

December 24 dawned and at 11.50am we set off for Kübele.

As we passed Cafe Margrit, one of the most popular cafes in Gmünd, we were surprised to see people streaming out. It should have been a warning...

A few minutes later we approached our restaurant and saw nobody sat at the tables by the windows. That was good: we liked a window table to watch the world go by while we were busy stuffing our faces.

However, the front door was locked. We squinted through a window. Chairs were stacked on tables. Kitchen staff and waiters were hoovering and dusting. The manager was polishing glasses. I tapped on the window. The owner’s wife came over, opened the window and asked what we wanted. “Lunch,” I said, “it’s my birthday today!”

She wished me a happy birthday and called her husband over. He wished me a happy birthday and a happy Christmas and said he’d see us tomorrow. Then he closed the window, gave us a cheery wave. and went back to his glass polishing.

Only then did we learn that in most places in the region, the tradition was to shut everything on Christmas Eve at midday. That night was the festive family meal, so it was all hands on deck to prepare it. The restaurants then reopened on Christmas Day.

What a wash-out for my birthday.

Never mind, we returned to Kübele next day and were greeted royally. After we’d finished our meal, the manager brought us two shots of Peach Schnapps and two large pieces of Sacher Torte - the most delicious chocolate cake in the world that originated in Vienna.

“Belated happy birthday!” he beamed.

“You’re too kind!” I replied.

Actually, they weren’t: when I checked the bill later, the Schnapps and two pieces of cake were included in it!

This story appears in this year's Holly Bough, which contains 164 pages packed with great stories about Cork and Christmas. On sale now in shops and at hollybough.ie - €6.