Birthday magic

And I should know. Because that’s exactly what I did on the day I turned five and woke up with chicken pox. That was bad enough in itself. Discovering that my party was cancelled and none of my new school friends would be coming to eat my beautiful sponge birthday cake, topped with white icing and ballet dancers in pink tutus, was even worse.

Thankfully, there hadn’t been another episode of birthday tears – until yesterday.

Me being me, we’re not talking about the misting over of eyes that can be surreptitiously blinked back before a solitary tear rolls down your cheek.

Oh no. If only.

Me being a drama queen with a tendency for massive overreaction – I once pulled over on a driving test because there was a ‘monster’ in the car and it was ‘impossible’ for me to continue. It turned out to be a Daddy Long Legs - we’re talking about those alarmingly inelegant sobs that have you curling into a foetal ball and wrapping the duvet around in you in a protective bubble from the outside world.

Which isn’t the best reaction when someone – Mario – has just given you a birthday card they’ve lovingly made, with snapshots of family life from the past ten years.

The first photos of the two of us did nothing more than make me gawp in shock at just how young and radiant we looked. Then came the photos of my nan and my parents and my younger brother and his girlfriend on holiday in Sardinia. Happy memories that made me smile.

But it was the last photo of Matt with my two little nieces that floored me. The picture itself is lovely. Taken on Christmas Day in 2006 or 2007, the girls are in their matching magenta party dresses and my brother has his arm wrapped protectively around them. The genuine cheesy grins on all three of their faces couldn’t be bigger.

And, there and then, as I was meant to be celebrating my birthday, I couldn’t help but think about the family I’ve lost and the senselessness of Matt killing himself.

“I didn’t mean for that reaction,” stammered Mario, as I continued to bawl, embarrassingly, into the pillow.

“I know,” I managed to mutter back in the gaps between my self-indulgent wailing. “It’s just that I was unprepared. I’ll be fine.”

A hot shower, a cup of very strong coffee and a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast later and I was. Because 15 minutes after my meltdown that would leave even a toddler gasping in awe, I got an email that changed everything.

For the past few weeks – and the reason I’ve been blogging sporadically – I’ve been deep in textbooks preparing for an interview so hideous and nerve-wracking, I was visibly trembling for the three hours prior to being called in to face the panel of inquisitors.

Not wanting to waste a second of revision time, I’ve existed on a few hours of sleep a night, a diet of Marmite on toast and black coffee and even temporarily ditched the training for Just Walk 2013. As priorities go, this was the big one.

And then, yesterday, I found out I’d clinched the deal and the magic of my birthday returned.

Because here’s the thing: I’ve always loved birthdays.

I don’t go in for pretending that they’re not important when you’re older and that it’s just another, ordinary day. They are and it isn’t.

Yes, birthdays are for being deluged with cards, presents, phone calls, texts and Facebook messages, but that’s not all.

Things – big things. Big Things with Capital Letters – happen on birthdays. At least they do on mine. On my 24th, I had an interview for a job in Liverpool, which I subsequently got. On my 25th I signed the contract to move to Milan. And on my 26th, I started my teacher training course.

Last year I was drugged up on anaesthetic after having the operation to remove three suspect lumps from my breast. It could have been a horrible birthday, but at least I had a clean bill of health, ready to start 2012 afresh.

This year, of course, speaks for itself. And it’s not just to do with scoring top marks with stern interviewers who didn’t even crack a smile. That was the white icing and ballet dancers in their pink tutus on the cake.

It wasn’t even to do with the non-stop celebrating – there’s another party on Saturday - and the surprise cake that the staff in one of the bars made for me.

No. This year is the stuff of legends because it’s all about me.

Every birthday – since I became an avid diary writer – I stare in the mirror and take in me, the past 365 days and the 365 to come.

Back in 2009, 2010, 2011 it was a pretty pointless exercise because I was staring at a stranger. There was no point assessing my past and pondering my future with a person who had no clue about me and my desires. Matt’s suicide had wiped me out to the point I was a ghost in a human shell.

Not anymore. Firsts are always good and this year there have been so many.

I’ve started writing again. I’ve fallen back in love with canoeing. I’ve been to Barcelona.  I’ve already raised £1,140 for Winston’s Wish, and, by this time next year, I’ll have walked 60km in a day and have pulled in the outstanding £860.

For the first time in years, I’ve recaptured that unbridled enthusiasm I always used to have and which has allowed me to achieve anything I’ve wanted.

But it’s not just me that has noticed the shift in energy.

“This year has been decisive for you,” wrote T., my old flatmate from when we used to live in Bologna, home to Italy’s oldest university. “I’ve finally found my Emma of old”.

Which is, by anyone’s standards, the best birthday present of all.

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