It was my birthday yesterday. I was sixty. So what, you may say and I agree, so what? Why do we make such a fuss of birthdays, particularly as we advance well beyond childhood and adolescence?

Twenty one is a big one, of course, representing as it does the notional passage from youth to adulthood. Thirty is big too and I guess so too forty and fifty but beyond that? No, after your fifties end the overriding feeling is often one of relief because by that time we have lost plenty of friends and, in some cases family members who never made it that far.

Sixty is worthy of a celebration. Of course it is, but not to the same extent as the other so-called milestones. As many folk are fond of saying, age is nothing more than a number, you are as old as you feel and all the other age-related cliches.

Well, I feel great thank you very much and I just want to appreciate life for what it is. Like the vast majority of those of us who live in the UK and the western world I am very lucky. By and large we don’t have it too bad, we live in a democracy, we are able to keep what we earn to a large extent and we can generally walk in safety down the streets of our towns and cities without interference. That will do for me.

So my view on celebration? Every day is a celebration and for as long as we have health and happiness and the health, happiness and love of those who we in turn love, what could be worth a greater celebration than that?