I was going to say I'm getting too old for this shit. But two things stopped me. The first was the fact that my brain is too addled for me to credit the movie quote from memory, proving that I was correct. The second reason was that while searching for its origin, I discovered a myriad blogs that had commenced with the very same thought, making it just a little hackneyed.

But the shit of which I speak is the annual Birthday Falloverthon (or Felloverthon, as Sam suggested) which took place on Saturday. Nice mixture of work friends and those from real life. Well, I say mixture. As always happens on these occasions, different parts of one's life tend to separate, making a social butterfly of even the most reticent host.

All good fun, and shamefully cheap for the birthday boy.

But the 4am finishes, the copious regular drinks, the suicidal drinks - treble gin, treble vodka, kahlua, nip of Strongbow, topped off with OJ (Thomas' concoction which - with apologies to those of a delicate disposition - surely took longer to make than it stayed down) - not to mention the nagging worries about stains and breakages - it's all becoming more difficult with each passing year.

So at the age of 32, I'm facing the likelihood that one of these days I'll have to have a responsible grown-up party, that's merry rather than messy, and with more of an emphasis on dinner than drinks.

But when?

Forty would be a sensible cut-off point, if it wasn't such a big number. And 41's out on the prime number rule. As for 42 - well, I couldn't disown Douglas Adams.

So here it is folks: your ten-year warning. Get the drinks in while you can.

Roll call: Thomsk, Josh, Rebecca, Jack, Jos, Lizzie, Robin, Hugh, Sam, Richard, Polly, Simon, Emma, Carl, Peter, Danny Fantastic, Indy, Fiona, Laura, Cait, and Kim. Thanks to all for a fantastic night.