So Friday was my 29th birthday, making that a new personal best for laps around the sun.

As you might imagine, I got a little bit merry for a few days, and as luck uniformly has it, a friend’s birthday happens to fall the day after mine, and he traditionally has a house party on the closest weekend. Which means traditionally, I tend to spend my birthday celebrating someone else’s birthday.

Not that I mind too much – I tend to assume that nobody would be that bothered about coming to drink for my birthday anyway – but it can get a bit strange spending your birthday going to birthday parties with all the usual trimmings but which aren’t for you.

Statistically, most people probably know a few people who share their birthday, particularly in the age of sprawling social media networks of friendships. I know at least four. So where does this vague desire for acknowledgement come from? After all, it’s not like I’ve earned anything that requires recognition, all I’ve done is survive another year without accidentally dying (though admittedly this year I broke a limb, which I’ve never done before!).

It seems utterly irrational to me, and yet it’s somewhere here in my brain anyway. Some matter of family socialisation, most likely, that persists into adulthood even though logically I know I don’t care a great deal.

So the question is, if that’s still in there, what else is? And how much of that goes to explain the nonsensical paths that modern society is taking?