When I was born, the doctor wasn’t there. In the maternity ward, the air was thick with humidity and women hollering for relief. My mum, self-trained in National Childbirth Trust breathing techniques, from a book sent over by her mum, remained relatively quiet, panting through the pain.

The doctor came to check on her and, when she saw how little pain my mum was apparently in, concluded that there was ages left to go before I made my entry. The doctor went shopping. Twenty minutes later, I popped into the world, protesting loudly.

My mum always said I was born within earshot of lions roaring, which always seemed fitting. If you’re going to be born in Africa, where better? The truth is, the lions were safely contained within the zoological gardens nearby.

Over the years, I’ve spent birthdays variously:

• sledging on teatrays in the Isle of Man;
• raising money for Comic Relief by standing outside BBC television centre with an enormous birthday card;
• eating dinner on top of a mountain, with a view over the Olympic mountain range, while serenaded by an opera singer;
• Getting my nose pierced in Vancouver;
• waiting for flowers in a run down tenament in Muirhouse;
• eating pancakes in Liverpool;
• dancing Sevillanas under orange blossom;
• in a moutain hut in North Wales, while people raved all night;
• eating welsh rarebit in a cafe-cum-bike-repair-shop in Liverpool, run by that bloke who used to be in Brookie;
• Having a shiatsu massage in a hut overlooking the Amazon treetops;
• on a rooftop in Soho;
• at work, and then in the pub.

Today, on my birthday, I’m getting ready to go on a three hour train journey northwards, closely followed by a three-hour train journey southwards. Every year brings new adventures, experiences and surprises. Every year is different, and new.