When I turned 30, I wanted the whole world to know about it. I chose to celebrate with no fewer than three events in three cities with three groups of family and friends. The third soiree involved drag queen karaoke in Dalston, a scandalously short gold tuxedo dress and about 57 bottles of prosecco.

I was “30, flirty and fabulous!” – just like the messages in most of my birthday cards told me. Sure I didn’t have a boyfriend. Or a house. Or a dog. Hell, I still don’t own a half-decent frying pan. But there I was, living my best (albeit poor) life as a freelance writer in London, surrounded by great pals, and turning 30.

I believed Carrie Bradshaw when she once said: “Your 20s are for enjoying yourself, your 30s are to learn the lessons, your 40s are to pay for the drinks”. Being 30 would surely signal my exit from a chaotic decade, leading me to ten years of achievements, wisdom and contentment, right? Big things would happen as I rode the wave of 30s fabulousness. This was the year I would “have it all”.

“Why does turning 31 seem so much scarier than 30?”