I have a big birthday coming up. I’m not going to tell you how big, because it’s appalling and I’m remaining in as much denial as I can for as long as I can. Let’s just say that by the NEXT big birthday I expect to be making noises of relief/effort as I get in/out of chairs and the last vestiges of all politeness towards the young will have gone. I will be loudly telling them to turn down their transistor radios and treat their elders with respect, rather than smiling at their youthful energy and muttering imprecations under my breath once at a safe distance as I do now.

I do not understand the celebration – past the age of 21 at the absolute maximum – of birthdays. I refused to mark mine in any way (apart from the acceptance of cash gifts) past the age of 13. I was admittedly a depressive, antisocial child – but, as my mother said, happy in my own way.

But it became clear to me then, and dear God so much clearer since, that all you are really doing with a birthday party is marking the irrefutable fact that you have completed one more of however many years you have been allotted by some unknowable genetic, cosmic or divine force on this........

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