SOPHIA MONEY- COUTTS MODERN MANNERS How old is too old to be a birthday boy?

My boyfriend had a party for all his friends, an enormous pile of presents and – wait for it – a football-inspired cake. He’s 35

By the time you read this, I will be relieved. More relieved, possibly, than even the Prime Minister to get to the end of this week, because my boyfriend’s birthday will be over. It was yesterday, and I was feeling pretty nervous about it since his family are a BIG birthday family. They go in for lots of presents, lots of wrapping paper, lots of celebrations. A birthday is always an occasion for him, so I’ve returned from Yorkshire for the weekend and yesterday morning I went to a London pub armed with bunting and a cake I’d ordered in the shape of a football glove, with his name on it, in order to make sure the room he’d hired looked spiffy enough. He wasn’t turning a special age, just 35. But we were having a party.

I come from a family where if everyone even remembers what day it is that’s a bonus. This is one of the chief (the only?) benefits of family Whatsapp groups. Someone smug will text a “Happy Birthday!!” message to another family member of the group in the morning, prompting the rest of us to join in. I normally just send a string of birthday cake emojis. There. That’s celebratory enough, right?

Should one stop making a fuss about birthdays when, say, you turn 18, or 21? Should that be the last hurrah before you settle into birthday obscurity, punctuated by a knees-up each time you crawl to a new decade?

Birthday parties as a child are heaven. They vie with Christmas as the day you look forward to all year round. “When are you six?” you ask a small boy, and the likelihood is he will tell you how many weeks and days are left.

But as an adult, I fall into the “no fuss” camp. A new book from Waterstones and a roast chicken at home would be lovely. But a Colin the Caterpillar cake from M&S? No, no, that’s too extravagant. No need.

“How many presents have you got me?” asked my boyfriend, last year, on the first of his birthdays we’d spent together.

“Three,” I said confidently. I’d already amassed enough intelligence to realise he took his birthday seriously. But later that weekend, when we went to his mum’s house, I panicked that I hadn’t bought enough. There were mounds of presents for him there. We’re not talking Beckham levels of extravagance. Jars of chutney and cheeses were among them. But the number did matter.

Is it a class thing? One can hardly ask such a question these days but Lloyd would be the first to say he’s a “working-class lad”, whereas I am neither of those. Perhaps I was already such a spoilt brat with other treats – holidays, theatre trips, pet barn owls – that birthdays weren’t a key date.

But then I will read a story online about some half-witted It-girl who’s just celebrated her 27th birthday at a new club in London, where llamas served cocktails and they ate canapés made from spun gold, and I’ll think again. Maybe it’s all part of what I wrote the other week about gender reveal parties – everyone wants their moment to shout about, these days.

Not me, though. No thanks. Instead, when the time comes (on Feb 19) a funny card from each and every one of you will suffice. I do love a funny card.

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