A few weeks ago I turned 39. I know. It’s barely worth mentioning: 39 is a Queen’s Club Championships of a birthday, the kind whose mention simply prompts a conversation about the next one to come. My son, however, started asking about it early. ‘When’s your birthday?’ he asked, four months ago. ‘November,’ I told him. ‘So,’ he asked, ‘in November you’ll be 40?’ ‘No,’ I told him, ‘39. Thirty-nine. I’ll be 39,’ with rather more vehemence than was strictly dignified.
Soon, he started asking me what I wanted as a gift, and I tried to restrict my answers to things he could manage himself. ‘I’d love it if you wrote me another book about your Lego sets,’ I said, ‘maybe one with me in it.’ He reacted to this low-stakes request as if I’d just demeaned the entire purpose of birthdays and started suggesting more expensive things like ‘trainers’ and ‘laptops’ and – struggling to think of other interests I might have – ‘a special, very big bottle of wine’. I told him those would all be fine presents, but I didn’t think he could afford them. He seemed shocked by this and said: ‘What about the rocket?’
