Turning 30

This time last week, the sun was shining down upon a breakfast table laid out in the garden, decorated with pink roses, a gingham tea towel and floral crockery. Croissants were piled on a plate with warm bread rolls, butter and milk hid in the shade and berries looked perky in a little bowl.

A few hours later, multi-coloured lanterns on strings were lit by fairy lights, ropes of lights wound around tree trunks, music played, corks popped seemingly endlessly and barbecue smoke settled in everyone's hair. There was a precarious hammock that luckily nobody climbed, there were bananas that were baked with chocolate and there were prawns on elegant antique skewers, with chorizo and pepper.

There was even a man who drunkenly let someone paint his nails bright coral.

It was a good day.

It is apparently customary to have a, how do I put it, total freak-out upon turning thirty, to worry about all the things that you haven't done yet, to be concerned about your place in society and whether you are keeping up with all your friends. I have no such worries. I am content. I didn't think about it at the time, it has only been upon looking back that I realised that I accidentally achieved a life-goal before my thirtieth birthday.

I have done it. I baked my first Victoria Sandwich.

I don't mind that it is practically crenellated by the not-quite-smooth greaseproof paper, that I should have turned the tins halfway through cooking so that our wonky oven didn't bake them on a slope, nor that I have broken with tradition and filled it with whipped cream instead of jam.  The important thing is that I have done it, I have passed this milestone without even thinking about it.  So it would seem that it is just as important to look back at what you have achieved, most of it probably without noticing, as it is to look forward to the future.