There are benefits to having a birthday perilously close to Christmas. Some might baulk at the idea of joint presents, but I’ll never forget the guitar my entire, dozens strong Irish family clubbed together to get me when I turned 16 or the Lego sets which pulled double duty in my younger years.
My annual celebration falls on 21st December. An auspicious day for pagans, daylight watchers and wild swimmers alike. The winter solstice. Before becoming hardened to the thrill of swimming in cold water, as an adult I’d allowed my birthday to become something of a millstone. Doubling up with Christmas parties was always a drag, finding a pub that wasn’t rammed with half cut bores in paper crowns singing Fairytale of New York impossible. Mates would have gone home to the warmth of the parental hearth, meaning a decent sized gathering was nigh on impossible. I began fantasising about a birthday spent somewhere, anywhere in the southern hemisphere, where my birthday would be bathed in summer sunshine.