It is perhaps to my eternal shame that I find myself pondering my planned birthday celebrations with an inappropriate and somewhat narcissistic fervour.
I have set aside the advice of trusted friends and colleagues, who tell me in no uncertain terms that a man should enter his fifth decade in quiet reflection rather than exuberant excess. These puritans would no doubt have me enter a monastery or sail from some Scottish port to a remote island in order that I might enter into a period of contemplation appropiate to a gentleman of my advancing years. They mock my proposals for a celebration which stretches to all corners of Her Majesty's glorious empire and examine me strangely at the club as if I were some curio or freak delivered from the Indies to be paraded in a travelling circus.
To the naysayers and doubters, I have but one message. You, sirs, can keep your pitiful birthdays in a damnable silence, but I refuse to follow suit. The first day of this November next will be one to remember.
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