My abiding memory of my 21st birthday was sitting beside a dual-carriageway in Victoria eating soggy overpriced sandwiches as I watched the traffic pass. My mother later pretended she hadn’t forgotten by rushing to Sainsbury’s before closing to buy a fruit salad spongecake, gone soggy from being left out all day. Realising that all my friends leaping out to shout “surprise!” was increasingly unlikely, I drank a bottle of Soave, smoked cigarettes and went to bed, drawing a veil over the whole empty, soggy experience. Ever since I’ve not bothered much with birthdays. Why even try to top that little winner?

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