It is the evening before my birthday. Hardly a rare event: it comes around this time each year. And it seems to come around quicker each year. Which is presumably a sign of advancing age.
For weeks you try to prepare yourself for the oncoming anniversary, determined to appreciate the last throes of your current age before it is irreversibly incremented. But there is too much else going on at this time of year to be able to devote much time for contemplation.
So now it is the last hour and a bit before the fateful moment; and then suddenly you are a year older, and will mull over it for a day or so before being swept on by the business of daily life and the frantic run-in to Christmas.
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