I have a real love hate relationship with my birthday. I love the idea of my birthday, a special day to celebrate and have fun and feel special. Even more so now I’m a mum and so much of my life revolves around my children. I know that it sounds pretty spoilt and self indulgent but I want a day that’s about celebrating me, possibly with a party on a tropical island attended by everyone I love. Also if The Red Hot Chilli Peppers fancy putting on a private concert for me that would just about finish it off perfectly.

The reality is that once you are an fully fledged grown up birthdays pretty much suck. It’s just another day. Though you can’t even just pretend it’s just another day because your childhood birthday experiences have programmed you to get excited about your birthday. Blah.

So usually my birthday pans out like this. In the week before I tell everyone I’m not bothered, it’s just another day. I may try to organise a small celebration. I may struggle to organise a load of people to be in the same place at the same time. My birthday arrives and I do the thing I have arranged, which is not what I want to be doing but as I’m unsure what it is that I want to do I didn’t arrange that. I spend the day behaving like a sullen teenager annoying everyone, usually have a little cry and go to bed glad the day is over.

I am approaching another birthday rapidly and already feeling birthday panic. I really wish I could bow out altogether but my stupid childish side won’t even let me do that. So let me take this chance to apologise to my poor husband. I promise that it will be over soon and then normal service will resume.