At 43 I really should know better – but if this week’s birthday was anything to go by, there’s still much to learn.
There I was, writing this column on my sofa with a coffee, smiling as the texts that come every year arrived – from pals who’ve known me since I was a kid, our birthdays marked indelibly on each other’s memories – when my husband said: “Come on, I’m taking you out for lunch.”
We warmed up with a few drinks in the Wine Press and, as it transpired Jamie hadn’t actually made a reservation but had somewhere in mind, we kept saying “just the one more”.
It was so exciting to be out.
The fizz was cold and I felt liberated, relishing such occasions to chat about something that doesn’t involve being out of dishwasher tablets or football kit.
By the time we made it to Boat Brae in Newport (amazing views, tasty food) I had to narrow my eyes to read the menu.
Maybe a bit tipsy – but it would be rude not to have a little something else to drink on a special day.
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Then came the call that always seems to on an afternoon out – a pal knows you’re out and insists you come to the pub to meet them.
And somewhere in this blur of fun, I completely forgot about my column deadline. And almost my own name.
As I got home (at 6pm – rock ’n’ roll) I remembered to text my pal – my goddaughter’s mum – just to make sure her present had arrived for her birthday in a few days time.
This would make me feel a little more like a responsible adult.
“Yes, thanks,” she said. “Here in loads of time – five months early actually, her birthday is in August.”
The laughing emoji let me know she saw the funny side but I was a little more reflective. Next year, I’d get her birthday right and remember to eat after just one drink on my own birthday.
But I’m pretty sure I said the same last year.
Waking the next morning with scratchy head, I opened a birthday card I hadn’t seen.
It was from my mum and the front said “Imagine a night when you didn’t drink too much…just imagine’.
She knows me too well.
And I like to think I’m not alone.
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