Where do I start? Well, the biggest problem is that it’s mybirthday. I was born on 1st January 1986 which makes me thirty-nine years old,or at least I was before all this time-travelling business started. People sayI look younger – men mostly who are trying to get me into bed. That isn’t meantto sound bitter. It’s just the voice of experience from one who’s been there,done it, and bought and thrown away the T-shirt as far as men are concerned –or one man in particular, if truth be told, but more about him later.
If I am being brutally honest, and hopefully reasonablymodest, until recently when I looked in the mirror I would say I could pass forthirty-five. That’s not first thing in the morning, obviously, but no one looksgreat at that time of day unless they’re in a movie waking up after a night of improbablyromantic sex.
I’m talking at least an hour after I’ve woken up, when I’vewashed, moisturised and had two cups of coffee to make me feel human again. Oh,and I’ve done my hair. Unlike those Hollywood starlets, I don’t have my ownpersonal stylist to make my hair look perfect while I’m asleep.
Despite its bedraggled early morning look, my best featureprobably is my hair. It’s long, blonde and without a hint of grey in sight.Before she died, I remember my mother telling me the grey hairs will startshowing up when I hit forty. With all that’s been happening to me lately, I’mnot sure I will ever reach that milestone.
You see, I don’t have to pass for being thirty-five anymorebecause, as of today, I’m only thirty. In two days’ time I’ll turn twenty-nine.Confused yet? I sure as hell was when all this started happening. That wasabout three weeks ago, since when it’s been permanently New Year – which,you’ll recall, is not my favourite time of year.
1st January must be a strong contender for the worstpossible date on which to have a birthday. Only 25th December could possiblytrump it. There was a girl I went to school with in Liverpool who was born onChristmas Day. Siobhan had really mean grandparents who always bought her ajoint birthday and Christmas present which was a pretty flimsy excuse forgetting away with buying just one. It wasn’t as if they even spent twice themoney – she would get a cheap Tamagotchi off the Heritage Market at StanleyDock if she was lucky.
I didn’t mind being born on 1st January when I was still achild. Apparently everyone made a real fuss of me when I was born because I wasthe first baby born at the Liverpool Women’s Hospital in 1986. I was supposedto have been born the previous day but clung onto my mother’s womb until twelveminutes after midnight. Being the first meant I even got my picture in TheEcho. It was my first and last moment of fame – I’ve not appeared in anewspaper since.
As I grew up, being born on 1st January still seemed like agood thing. I never had to go to school on my birthday and because it was abank holiday there were always plenty of family members around to celebrate.
Some years we would go and visit my maternal grandparents inOxford. On others, they would come and stay with us. These were my happiestyears, before my mum and dad split. After that I started being dragged from oneend of the country to the other, losing some of my sense of identity in theprocess.
From that point my birthday celebrations took a nosedive. Bythe time I hit my late-teens and early twenties and wanted to go out drinkingand partying to celebrate my birthday, nobody was interested. They were alwaystoo hung-over from the night before.
“I can’t see what the problem is,” said Kelly, who was mybest friend at the time. “I think you’re lucky. The whole country goes out tocelebrate your birthday.” That was on my 21st.
Blatantly they didn’t but I couldn’t be bothered to pointout the flaws in that argument so just went along with it. I knew that myfriends weren’t really celebrating my birthday, even if they could be botheredto pretend they were. They, like everyone else, were out to enjoy New Year’sEve.
It was only when Big Ben chimed that my birthdaycelebrations could truly begin and, invariably, they didn’t. Everyone aroundalways wished me “Happy New Year” but hardly anyone ever said, “HappyBirthday”. In their drunken euphoria they had forgotten all about me. Going outto celebrate my birthday? I think not.
“Let’s go out for lunch on my actual birthday, tomorrow,” Isuggested one year, not long before Big Ben chimed. Of course, everyone was upfor it in their drunken state. The following lunchtime I sat like a totalnumpty in Nando’s like some Billy-no-mates, realisation slowly dawning that noone was going to turn up. Not one of them even bothered to text. Most wereprobably still in bed. Even an extra-large dollop of peri-peri sauce couldn’tsate my disappointment.
After I turned thirty, birthdays became less of a big deal.I felt less inclined to go out and get drunk every year like I had before. Iwas working full-time as a nurse by then and the enhanced pay for working overthe bank holiday period was well worth missing yet another tedious New Year’sEve party for. It was enough to pay for a nice week away in the Canaries inJanuary just as everyone else was struggling back to work.
I loved going on holiday at that time of year. It was cheapas chips outside the school holidays. I felt sorry for people with kids when Ilooked at the astronomical prices travel agents charged during the schoolholidays. How did they ever afford to get away?
I was determined to make the most of the years before I hadchildren to travel as much as possible, but to be honest, a week each year inLanzarote wasn’t exactly travelling the world as
