Today's my birthday

37 years ago, at 2am in the morning, my mother, accessorised with false eyelashes and make-up, ejected me into the world. It was 1969. Armstrong had just landed on the moon, Hendrix was still alive, the earth seemed a more innocent place, at least to the baby boomer generation. I was the most beautiful baby on the ward (there was not much competition, it being Wolverhampton Infirmary) - according to my number one fan Mrs C.M. Weate.

Certain proof was the fact that the nurse used me to demonstrate how to change nappies. Jaundice had given me an olive-skinned, mediterranean complexion. Birthdays should always be about celebrating the mother, not the child, I reckon. Tonight there will be friends, food and laughter, but I will raise an internal imaginary flute of Bolly in celebration of my mother, and of mothers.