It’s my 30th birthday party - and I’ll cry if I want to

armageddon gv end of the world gv

CLIVE SMITH: I thought they’d finally got the date right and we’d reached Armageddon

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It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to. That’s exactly what I’ll be saying tomorrow night. The reason? I’m now 30 years old! Let the crisis commence.

‘Don’t be so blinkin’ dramatic’ is what you’re probably saying right now. Well I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.

It’s a big deal. Maybe it’s more of a big deal to women – you know, the biological clock ticking and all that. I swear if one more person tells me that I should ‘be careful leaving it any longer’, things will get ugly. I’ve never had a fight before, but there’s a first for everything.

So far I am 30 years old and one day and it has been relatively uneventful. No dramas to report.

I’ve had a fantastic birthday and been spoilt rotten by a wonderful fiancé and family. But tomorrow night’s party may be a different situation altogether.

No doubt there’ll be tears (of anxiety) as I consider that I’m officially an adult and tears of joy as I celebrate what I’ve achieved over the past three decades.

I’m a pretty sentimental soul and just having my family and friends in one room will be enough to send me over the edge. Perhaps I should seek help?

I’ve gone for a 1950s Dreamboats and Petticoats theme and gone all out with the decorations.

Kristie at knows this only too well – I feel we’re now outright BFFs as we’ve spent so long deliberating over what decorations I should have and what ones aren’t necessary. Sorry Kristie!

Then there’s the sweet cart and sweet ‘trees’ I’ve ordered from Sweet Divisions – a Portsmouth-based company that specialises in creative sweet parties.

You can literally get a ‘tree’ made out of chocolate. Honestly, what could be better than that?

So now you know where I’ll be tomorrow night – blubbering with a glass of pinot in one hand and some sweets in another.

I’ll have a party hat on my head and will probably end up slumped in the corner by the sweet cart.

And I reckon I’ll be showing my age by desperately trying to hold on until midnight when really all I’ll want by about 11pm is my jim-jams, a mug of Horlicks and my fluffy slippers.

Oh dear.