Twenty-one years ago today I fell into a suitcase. Twice.
There I was, happily getting ready to go to work when the Ex announces that she has gone into labour, and promptly takes herself off for a relaxing bath and some Whale Song. Well, it was the Eighties. Meanwhile, I am running around like a headless chicken in the sort of panic usually only seen in sitcoms involving Terry Scott. In my vain attempt to multitask at 100 miles per hour, I managed to trip over and fall into the obligatory pre-packed suitcase which, until then, had occupied the same spot, unmolested, for several weeks. Twice.
Around eight hours later, of course, it all came good with the arrival of the small person who would grow up to become Boy 1 (of 3).
And so here, for once, is a serious message: Happy Birthday, son. Have a good day, and a great life. I am immensely proud of what you have achieved up to now, and what you are aiming to do in the future. Enjoy it all.
Oh, and you owe me a pint.