Last updated 19:29, Thursday, 27 November 2008

BY THE time you read this, I will be a year older; the age that I have to declare on documents will show a figure that has increased by one digit.

It’s definitely a sign of getting older when we dread these anniversaries. When we’re younger, we can’t wait to be older, and the important ages like 13, 18 and 21 seem forever away. Get past here, though, and they just seem to roll in ever faster...

Birthdays; so very English, don’t you think? Jelly and ice-cream, balloons, pass-the-parcel, musical bumps (no longer allowed in this age of blame culture, though), cheese and pineapple chunks on sticks. Aren’t birthdays great?

Not everywhere in the world celebrates them. In Greece, where I lived for a number of years, Name Days are the national celebration, as just about everyone Greek is named after a saint, in a hopefully unbroken family line of Kostas and Marias.

It’s not anywhere near as much fun, from my experience, although I’m sure that nowadays things are probably a bit different.

But back then, in a tiny village on a Greek island, Name Days didn’t even come close to our birthday bashes. For a start, everyone comes to you and you give them food. They just wish you “Chronia Polla” (many years) and sit down to eat.

Anyone’s welcome, and instead of all that silly food on sticks and wibbling on plates, polite glass bowls of roasted chickpeas (you needed strong teeth), cut-glass dishes for the preserved fruit (glacé cherries my particular favourite) and minute gilt embellished glasses for the shot of liqueur (the virulent purple Parfait d’Amour the most – er – memorable) are handed out. You don’t refuse Greek hospitality; it must all be consumed and pronounced delectable (I won’t mention the plate of goat’s brain soup here).

Back to Blighty. I think my birthday’s on a great day, placed nicely between Bonfire Night and the same number as the Big Day itself – the serious countdown to it begins here.

I share my day with some notable events: JFK’s funeral in 1963, the departure of the last British troops from New York, heralding America’s true independence in 1783. I share it with two dictators(!), and, more cheerfully, the date when Band Aid got together to record Do They Know It’s Christmas?.

It’s also Stop Violence Against Women Week, National Curry Week and National Eating Out Week. Sounds ok to me.

So, what will I be doing after all? Things will have to be left to the weekend and then I fancy a walk in our autumnal woodlands, if the weather’s not too awful, a family lunch next to a blazing fire in one of the more salubrious hostelries.

Then back home and a glass of wine as I settle down to that Casanova DVD I just know I’m going to be getting. Happy birthday!