I’ve never liked birthdays. Even as a child, when the gradual accretion of years gives a blooming sense of importance and achievement, I found the whole thing squirmy and embarrassing. All occasions of enforced jollity make me feel alienated: New Year’s Eve is bad enough; I am never ready by the time my birthday comes around a week later to weather the barrage of good wishes, culminating in the horror that is Happy Birthday to You. It hasn’t got better over the years, but I’ve found a way of combating the mortification. For the past few years I’ve been in Australia for my birthday, have worked through it without saying a word, and thus largely escaped the folderol. This year I shall be here, and