In which your heroine turns 30 and has a terrible row with her mother....

Let us deal quickly with the birthday.

I enjoyed it.

I remember some of it.

I swear it took me longer to recover from it.

I'm pretty sure that I didn't take any of my clothes off in public - though considering my husband's insistance that I passed out in our hotel bedroom "way before he came up" I'm impressed that I still managed to wake up with my knickers hanging off the dainty and tasteful chandelier in our bedroom. Perhaps I treated myself to a striptease of myself? No wonder I passed out... probably in horror.

I should probably mention, as per recommendations from my lawyers, that I have never met that goat, either previously or during my bithday party celebrations.

So - here I am. A bit older, my liver a bit more scarred, much fatter, possibly a bit wiser (do not, for instance, drink Sambuca after three double Courvoisiers) somewhat wrinklier and, well... a bit more at peace with myself, actually.

Yeah - I know. You're not here to listen to me having a good time. You want misery. A little angst. And I'm just the girl to give it.

Yet... here I am, poised to tell you of the dreadful row I've had with my mum and suddenly... I seem unable to bother. I keep rolling my eyes and shrugging my shoulders. My fingers refuse to dart across the keyboard in excited irritation.

Do you know what?

Perhaps I really did grow up.