Rolling Years

It was my birthday on Monday. I hate birthdays – what's the point? Well, I suppose it's worth celebrating one's birth, in as much as it was presumably a momentous day when any of us arrived on this planet, but why do we have to count how many years it was since that glorious day? Some things are worth celebrating without mentioning how long we've been doing it. The summer solstice, for instance; or St Valentine's Day (oh no, don't get me started on romance). But we don't say: "How many years is it since our Val was beatified?", do we?

So on Monday, I went to work staggering under the weight of the massive amount of cakes I'd bought, and announced that it was my birthday. What should have happened then was that everyone should have danced around, ringing bells, pulling party-poppers and throwing rice, shouting: "Hurrah, let's celebrate the anniversary of Richard's wondrous birth!" But what happened instead? Well, this: Whilst unwrapping yet another double-choc mini-roll, Mavis from accounts asks, "Come on then, Richard. Tell us how old you are." Why do people think they have a right to know this? Why does it even matter? Well, as Patsy once proclaimed in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous, I loudly insisted: I'm forty-two! And if you believe that, you'll believe anything.

So what did I do for my birthday? After work I came home, washed the salt from my scarred and wracked body, and held a champagne reception for a dozen friends in my apartment. Not a good idea on a school night, but I recovered.

I hate birthdays.