Having a birthday on Valentine’s day is more a point of mockery than a tool to remember. 14 Feb, I share a cake with my family and pose for awkward photos. (Cake is good.) Oh – and we upload it to Facebook, as though our entire family’s smiling at the faceless Internet, like it’s for the studio audience. Aging reminds me that I need to grow up, and that’s about it.

The internet: it keeps everyone updated. Facebook feeds get cluttered with ‘happy bday’ messages, repeated until its banal, chore-like meaning’s diminished even further. Offline, sometimes classmates may say ‘happy birthday’ in the mornings, sort of like a morning greeting we should have, but don’t.

We don’t say hello. Our faces are like classroom walls, unchanging, plain and unavoidable: we’re only interested in each other’s morning faces one day of the year- or, if your birthday’s in the holidays, possibly never. It all goes on. You’d wish that time would stop on your birthday; that you could be happy longer, but time moves on.

It all fades.