Let's just say if I'm lighting all the candles myself, I might need to stop and have a nap after 35.
Luckily the fire service is on standby just in case the final 22 bumps up the heat in the room too much and sets the sprinklers off.
Naturally I expect my widespread whānau to make use of courier services wherever they are and direct appropriate gifts to my humble abode.
The other day, with the imminent arrival of such birthday goodies foremost in my mind, I added "Make space for pressies" to the To Do list.
Obviously I've already gone through that pretend stage where I've told the family: "I don't need anything. Just a card will be fine." I'm sure you know what I mean.
You might say that but what you really mean is you want the biggest, brightest, shiniest 'thing" possible.
Luckily my kids have gone through that stage where they've worked out the mind games – after a couple of years where all I did actually get was a card – and now they are adept at reading between the lines.
Trouble is what do they get someone of my vintage who has everything?
That's where we slide into the "gesture" gift isn't it? That little something to go with the card. As a "gesture".
But I digress. So that's where we come to the making space for pressies bit.
I'm expecting a lot of handkerchiefs, the mandatory socks and undies from my mum, but generally some little nick-nack type things.
They will all fit in my top drawer. So a clean out of last year's stuff is needed.
Eventually the process morphs into a whole new clean out plan and Mrs P decides her top drawer – the one with all her bras and undies - needs a clean out too. Then it will all need to be replaced - what a surprise.
Naturally there are no arguments from me. With a glint in the eye as bright as the candles on my upcoming cake I suggest a "fashion show". Ahem. Purely to see what she should get rid of. Honest.
Now it has to be said, advancing years have not dimmed the enthusiasm for a laugh in our household.
I'm sure there will be a point in the future where the things we find funny now will be classed as, well, pretty crazy. But right at the moment I don't really care.
I've always felt laughter is the best medicine for a lot of life's ups and downs and for the next hour or so Mrs P and I wolfed it down like a fine wine.
And in case you are wondering, yes I found a pair of boxers with "Superman" emblazoned across an appropriate section and strutted my stuff too as Mrs P fell about in hysterics.
I felt it went well to be honest. Maybe there's a modelling job opportunity there. Keep an eye out for the next Farmers brochure.
Anyway.
Job done. To Do list updated. Space made in the top drawers for new arrivals, Mrs P and I settle back into our day-to-day lives.
A few days later I'm in the middle of an online meeting about a job. Not so much an interview more as a chat about possibilities. One of those Zoomy things where I can see them on the screen and they can see me.
And more importantly for this story they can see everything behind me in the bedroom I use as my office.
I'm sure you know where this is going.
Into the room and up to the full-length mirror on the wall, oblivious to the fact I'm talking to someone on the screen, sweeps Mrs P in a rather fetching undergarment ensemble she says she overlooked from days earlier.
She casts an approving eye over the outfit in the mirror and leaves as quickly as she arrived. I think it would be one of the few times I've ever been completely lost for words.
And I'm not entirely sure how it went down at the other end either. I'm still waiting to hear back about the job.
But I think my chances are better than they would have been if I'd shown up wearing my Superman boxers.
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to editor@northernadvocate.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field).
