It was my birthday last Sunday and the Curate very kindly wished me a happy birthday during the notices at church. He mentioned that I was twenty-one again. However, my children were keen to put him right. Straight away and very loudly.
‘Not TWENTY-one. She’s FOURTY-one’ they chanted from the pew. Good to know that they know their numbers…
It reminded me of the time that a friendly local shopkeeper asked a very chatty Joker his age a while ago.
‘I’m three, the Queen is four and Mummy’s thirty-eight’ he informed the grocer.
I think I might just get a large badge announcing my age so the kids don’t feel the need to tell everyone.
The Vicar's Wife 
Ah, but do they know how to spell those numbers?
*cough*forty-one*cough*
And then we were in a Chinese buffet restaurant this weekend and the Joker was chatting up a lady at another table. ‘I’m five, my sister is seven and my little brother is three,’ he said, charming her with his sweet smile and lovely auburn hair. ‘And Mummy is fourty-one.’
Sigh.
And now today the Joker tells me that he’s been discussing my age with a dinner lady at school. But it’s okay.
She’s fourty-eight.