KEY POINTS:
It's always tricky writing a column with a deadline that is in advance of the event. Political commentators and sports editors must have a particularly trying time of it.
But when it came to my Christmas column, there was nothing newsy to write about and I thought I was pretty safe predicting yet another dull birthday and connecting with my own kind by bemoaning the lack of celebration that is the lot of all Christmas babies.
As sod's law would have it, I had one of my best birthdays ever. Oh, there have been memorable ones.
Sitting on the beachfront in Havana, eating a toasted cheese sandwich and being presented with a pair of nylon knickers twisted to look like a rose and attached to a stem that my Irishman had bought off a passing hawker was one.
Turning 40 and dining at Gordon Ramsay's at Claridges with old and dear friends was another. Would madam like another glass of vintage Bollinger? You bet your bippy madam would!
But it would be hard to top the birthday lunch in Taupo at the Prawn Farm - or as the kids called it, the Porn Farm.
We'd spent Christmas with my brothers in-law and a fine bunch of people they are too.
They all decided to come along to the "Porn Farm" and I received cards, and presents, and endless kisses from the kids - and a lifetime desire to have Happy Birthday sung to me in a crowded restaurant was achieved.
Bliss. I had phone calls and emails from friends all over the country, cards and flowers, fabulous presents - I promise I shall never, ever complain again. If you're afflicted with the curse of the Christmas birthday, I hope your day was just as splendid.
* www.kerrewoodham.com
