39 years, 51 weeks and counting down

There's less than a week to go until my husband turns 40, and I have to say, he's taking it remarkably well (so far).

My 40th was a blast. We had a family trip to Rome (him, me, my parents and the mini-RMs), a surprise until we reached the departure lounge. There was also THE BEST FILM TRAILER EVER MADE, which my husband arranged, wrote, starred in, directed and presented to me with my family at an exclusive dinner in a boutique venue in Kent.

While we were in Rome, we managed to escape the minis and have a couple of hours, just us, to meander, eat and reminisce on our previous visits to the boot of Europe.

Our first-ever holiday together was to Lake Garda. This was back in the day when we dressed up to fly, I'd taken 17 pairs of shoes, and we arrived in blazing sun. After checking into our hotel, we headed in our linen trousers to find a seat with a view of the lake and indulged in a bottle of white wine and a bowl of the most decadent olives. The heat was sultry, sexy, and we wandered through the streets of the town, hand-in-hand, browsing and buying (the first of eight pairs of shoes we brought back), stealing kisses at every opportunity.

Then it started to rain. It continued to rain for the duration of our time there. Every village we visited via the servicio rapido (schnell boat, fast boat) was wet. We were ankle-deep in water while we followed the steps of Romeo and Juliet along the marble street of Verona (no star-crossed lovers, we've been together almost 15 years and neither of us has resorted to poison). And as we walked across the stilted platforms of Venice, we got crapped on by a bird.

Milan was better. We received an upgrade at our hotel and spent time indulging in coffee culture and people watching. I bought him a pair of shoes from Dolce & Gabanna from the most expensive street in the city and I was treated to the biggest ego boost of my life when an Italian called out "Mamma Mia" as I walked past him. This was, of course, before the film of the same name and he didn't look like an Abba fan, so I'm claiming it, OK?

Milan was also where we had to order "crispy young rooster" from the menu of an exclusive restaurant, and not laugh while seated in what can only be described as a mafia-infused environment. The hotel served us dinner on our final night - Roast Dormouse was the special - I seem to recall we had fish.

My 30th wasn't so great. I am ashamed to say I sulked for much of my actual birthday-day, despite being in Barcelona and witnessing a busking Pan Pipe group outside Habitat at the top of Las Ramblas who looked and sounded just like something from the Fast Show.

But back to my 40th. I have noticed I am no longer able to accurately state my age without some serious mathematics, but I'm sure someone will be happy to remind me when I'm approaching 50. But I was happy to turn 40. I was in a different place to when I turned 30 - married with children, a lovely home, career despite the career breaks and with someone who makes me laugh, loves me, and who I love. Not bad for a girl from Margate. And I guess that, as my husband has achieved all this and so much more too, reaching 40 won't be an issue for him either.

Unfortunately, the plans we've made for his birthday aren't quite so grand, but I know what he likes and a party tea with the girls on the night of his birthday will be perfect, providing there's Party Rings on the table. I know it's a little early, but Happy birthday Ju - I hope it’s wonderwall wonderful! 




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