BED

Bed - what a wonderful invention! To say that I love mine would be to reduce my feelings for this all-ensconcing piece of furniture to the level of human affection: people disappoint, betray and snap; my bed always welcomes me with a smile and a cosy embrace, rain or shine.

I owe my beautiful bed to two gays - my former tenants, to be precise. For if it wasn't for their debunking of the "aren't-gay-men-tidy" stereotype, I would never have been forced to get rid of my 1990s cream-coloured, gold-embroidered divan with matching mattress (I put in on eBay for £1. And someonee obligingly paid me £9.50 for the thing. They picked it up too, saving me the £30 I would have had to pay the council to do the same).

You see, my tenants were not very nice people. They put my computer table on the terrace, where it was destroyed by the elements; stained the carpet; put up lights that looked like sea-urchins; and installed a Sky satellite dish without my permission. They also left deep, crimson marks on my bed. I didn't care to sleep on it any more.

After a few weeks' searching, I opted for an overpriced Habitat bed. It's made of luxuriant, mahogany-coloured Italian leather. The mattress lies on slats. But - and this is the best bit - the mattress and slats are attached to a hydraulic mechanism. I can lift them right up, revealing, underneath, enough storage space to fit my ironing board, vacuum cleaner and summer wardrobe. It cost me £1400, but I wouldn't change it for the world.

"I've yet to christen my bed yet," I tell my female friends. As they wince in disgust, I suggest that "Bob" might be a good name. Still, a shag wouldn't go amiss either!

Alas, "Bob" and I won't be happy bedfellows this evening. I'm on another night shift. And when I get home tomorrow morning I have to finish packing, pick up my ticket and head to the airport. Elat is just a few hours away.

I'M 30!

If it wasn't for the fact that I've just started a night-shift after driving back to London from Nottingham, I'd be feeling pretty chirpy. As it is, I'm sleepier than Rip Van Wrinkle just before taking a rather long nap.

So why the sleep-deprived good humour? Well, the big night itself got off to a rather slow start. A dive on Finchley Road was the rendezvous for my coming of age. There were three floors - the rammed top floor, itself split into a Jewish right and Gentile left, divided only by a bouncer-laden landing; the ground floor, where people waited for the neckless bouncers to let them up; and the lower-ground floor, where people, so far as I could tell, just went to shit (the top-floor toilets only had porcelain urinals - a tiny box of a bog, complete with valet to squirt soap on your hands and pass you toilet roll to dry them, before waiting expectantly for his tip).

In among the predicted fat-arses, faux Liz Hurley dresses exposing lifeless bosoms, and drunken chavs, was Rachel. She was a friend of Rob's. She had a phd, a nose-ring and, in her words, "had only ever shagged one guy". I already had the impression that she fancied me before she started rubbing my back and stroking my paunch.

Luckily, I'd already met Tamy. The tanned, evanescent-toothed Glaswegian was just about the only thing I cared to look at for the rest of the evening. I was drunk, but not annoyingly so. I gleaned that she lives round the corner from my parents and works as an optician in the City. "I know this isn't exactly the best place to make a good first impression," I told her. "But can I give you a call some time and take you out for a drink?" I asked. She smiled, looked at me in a flattered kind of way, and then told me she had a boyfriend. He shoots, he misses!

I wasn't too upset, though. I prefer to be rejected on the grounds of prior-commitment, rather than anything else. That way, at least, I can think to myself that it was a question of poor-timing, not poor personality.

So I left around 1.30am. I walked home in the freezing fog. My flat was warm, but unheated. I opened my presents: Garden State; Paul Smith washbag; Simpsons DVDs; and chalah bread board. Some lovely cards too. I went to bed, contentedly inebriated and not the least bit resentful that I'd just turned 30.

The next morning, the sun woke me (as happens every day now - I really must buy those blinds!). I turned on my phone. A text from Rosa, a Greek girl I'd gone out with once but had never called again. She was wishing me a happy birthday, the fulfillment of all of my dreams and everything else my heart desired.

It really put a smile on my 30-year old face. Perhaps I was too dismissive of her the first time round? I told her to let me know when she was back in town. Just on the grounds of sweetness, she deserves another chance.

Four hours to go till I turn 30.

Well, it seems, my time as a 20-something is running out. In less than four hours I will reach that magical number: 30. It's been a fun kind of week. I was ill, then I felt better, I booked to go to Israel for New Year's Eve, and I patched things up with Aurora.

Lunch today went perfectly. As ever, I prepared enough food to feed all the homeless people on Kilburn High Road. I finished lunch four hours ago, yet I'm still not hungry.

Anyway, I can't write too much now. My friend Rob is already on his way to pick me up and whisk me off to some horrendous Jew-do on Finchley Road. No doubt it will be the usual sad faces, oversized arses and sweaty cleavages that these events tend to attract. (Does that make me as desperate as them, I wonder?) Why I chose this week to spend £450 for the privilege of seeing it all again on New Year's Eve, only in Israel, I don't really know. But hey, you're only 30 once.

When I was 15 I wanted to be married by the time I was 25. Now I'm 30, I've stopped setting myself targets. Whatever happens, happens. Sure, I worry about spending the rest of my life alone, unloved and with no-one for company but my gerbils. But then, I've always feared that. Turning 30 hasn't changed that, nor is it likely to. As with any age-transition, it's just hard to reconcile the fact that I look into the mirror with the same eyes that I had when I was 21 and see the same, perhaps slightly podgier, face that I always had. The hair is still all there, the not-quite-fat paunch is still present, as is the hunger I still have for success, for love and, yes, for happiness. Cynical? I always have been. Optimistic? I always will. At least, I hope so. Happy Birthday to me!

Three days to go till I turn 30

Days off are one of life's greatest joys. I slept in till 9.30 today and didn't even get dressed till midday. Granted, entertaining the electrician wasn't on my list of ways to occupy my time today. And I still haven't finished writing my cover letter to Sky for correspondent job. I hate these superficial, contrived exercises - blow your own trumpet too much and you're an egocentric moron; too little, and you're an introverted imbecile who doesn't seem to want the job after all. Why do cover letter's even exist? Does anyone even read them? "Dear Sir: please give me the job. I am dynamic, engaging, experienced, handsome, young, able to work under pressure, bored shitless of writing the same cover letter over and over again. Regards Someone who's application you'll reject because he's not from an ethnic minority/a woman/been working as a journalist since he fell out of his cot."

Anyway, as it happens I spent much of the day trying to find a reasonably-priced flight to Israel for New Year's Eve. I always leave things to the last minute. And even when I make a decision, I dither to such a degree that someone snaffles the seat just as I'm about to click on the "buy" button.

The other highlight of the day was cooking. My parents and a couple of friends are ocming over for lunch on Saturday. I'm planning duck, chicken, pineapple and sweet potatoes, not all at the same time. Aurora recons it's a bad idea to mix your birds. But I'd already defrosted them, so it was too late. And although things between us now seem pretty much normal (thank G-d), she won't be joining us for lunch. Another friend of hers demanded she go round there instead. I suggested we split Aurora in two - that way we could get to share her.

In a couple of days, she'll be gone for an entire month, gallavanting around southeast Asia for the umpteenth time. As for me, it looks I'll be spending a rather lonesome New Year's Eve in North London. I have no idea who is going to be around, and I certainly haven't planned anything. Can I be arsed with it all? Probably not. But then, it just wouldn't do to be dull on New Year's Eve, just a week after I've turned 30.

Four days to go till I turn 30

I've just sleepwalked my way through a midnight shop at Tesco. I'm now fully stocked up for my Saturday lunch. Doubt Aurora will join me. Does she not realise how hard it is for me? How the more she pushes me away now, the harder it will be to get back to the way things were? I nearly called her earlier, but I've decided to take a leaf out of George from Seinfeld's book - doing the opposite of my normal inclinations. So when I feel like calling Aurora, I do the opposite. If only I'd thought of that before I told her that I loved her. Good night.

Five days to go till I'm 30

STILL ILL

My cold is trying to get the better of me. All day, my eyes have been streaming, my nose has been dripping and my eyes look more sunken than Skeletor's. Worst of all, I think I have the beginnings of - horror of horrors - a cold sore.

I don't think it's quite blossomed into its full glory yet. But I'm pretty sure it's there, hovering below the left side of my lower lip, threatening to make my mug about as television-friendly as the Elephant Man's.

My initial reaction to seeing this facial slur was shock. I've never had one before. And I haven't snogged anyone for weeks. Do you get it from shagging, I asked myself? But then I haven't slept with anyone in six months either! Apparently about 80% of the population has the virus which causes them. You can also get them when your ill (as I am right now), stressed (perennially) or emotionally upset (yep). What a bastard of a sore!

Anyway, I live in hope. It's still not too noticeable. Though it's probably just as well that I'm too ill to venture outside too late.

Five days before I turn 30 I know I should be out partying, getting drunk and hanging out with my friends before they go away. But I can't be arsed. I just want to curl up in a bed with a good book and roast alongside my radiator.

Six days to go till I'm 30

ILL

My throat feels like I've swallowed bark and then gargled with grit. My eyes feel as though they've been lanced my needles while being simultaneously clamped in a vice. And my chest is filling up with phlegm so fast I may need to be drained. It's bad enough that the weather in London is shit; now I have to feel crap as well?

It's so rare for me to be ill. In fact, now I come to think about it the last time I felt feverish and, er, swollen was when I popped into London last April. That week I hardly slept, my glands ballooned to the size of golfballs and I had my dream job snatched away from me when I was told that they wouldn't renew my contract as a foreign correspondent.

Of course, the shitness I felt back then was heaven compared with October 2003 when I was struck down by gastroentiritis. What an arse of an illness that turned out to be! If you've never had the pleasure of this ailment, imagine being impregnated by the Alien spawn from the eponymous film. Only rather than break out of your stomach, it just probes your innards so painfully that you think you're going to die. In the end, I managed to crawl to a hospital-bound taxi, got hooked up to a drip for several hours and told to eat nothing but mashed potatoes, cheese and apple-flavoured Gatorade till I felt better.

Still, it could be worse. Terminator 2 is on the tele and it's my birthday in just six days!

Still seven days to go...

BIG MONKEYS

I saw King Kong today. Phenomenally ambitious film, 1930s New York so lovingly created in 21st century CGI. Favourite line: "Yes, I'm touching the beast...behold my 25ft tall gorilla." Favourite part of the film - reading the credits and seeing that one of the accountants who worked on the big budget blockbuster was called Karen Kong. Do you think she got the job through her family connections?

I had planned to go to see the film on my own. Solo film-going is a pleasure I only recently discovered Gone are the days when I'm too self-conscious to be seen without someone sitting alongside me. Instead, I find the whole experience intensely liberating: I get to see what I went, when I want, and all at the cinema two streets from my home. Why do you need to do something as antisocial as going to the cinema with someone else?

But I didn't go on my own. Aurora called - the first time she's done so in over a week. A fun time was had by all and there was absolutely no monkey business.

Seven days to go till I turn 30

It turns out Aurora was at a friend's house all weekend - I assume that's why she didn't pick up her phone. She turned up at around 11pm with three of her cohorts in toe: one a gorgeous Glaswegian lesbian, one a pint-sized munchkin, and the other a media lawyer. Everything was, er, normal. There was no awkwardness, no extra distance. Instead, we drank, danced and yapped our way over the strains of the Brazilian band singing "Get on up" in Portuguese.

Mercifully, most of my friends turned up. Only Gemma demurred, based on the potentially spurious grounds that she had a sore throat. So did I, but then I suppose it was my party, so I couldn't very well have stayed at home.

Everyone wished me happy birthday. Though as I repeatedly pointed out, there were still eight days - now seven - to go. So I still had time to do all things I always wanted to do before I turned 30: get married, write a book, climb a mountain, deflower a virgin (well it could still happen)!

But I digress, All in, a pretty successful evening. Until I walked Aurora out. I told her of my insecurities, that I'd been feeling mellow all week, and that I was still concerned that I'd fucked up our friendship. "Are we cool?" I asked her. "We're cool," she said. I shook her hand. But she told me it would "take time" for things to get back to normal. I know, deep down, that it will. But I still kick myself every time I think about it. Why couldn't I keep my feelings to myself? I'd have probably met someone else and got over it. Now she's going away for a month and I don't quite know whether I should back off and give her time. Or if I should just plough on as though nothing had changed.

Eight days to go till I turn 30

PARTY NIGHT
It's 6.40 on Saturday evening and I'm nervous. Tonight is the night I celebrate my 30th birthday. Okay, I appreciate there's more than a week to go till I hit the big 3 0, but I didn't really have much choice.

You see, being born on Christmas Day has its pros and cons. On the one hand, no-one can possibly say that they forgot my birthday. On the other, everyone goes away and nothing is ever open on the day itself.

So tonight's the night. I've booked a section of a Brazilian bar in town. It is a wild place, with real-live South American beauties being swung around the dance floor like crash-test-dummies; live music and Brazilian nibbles. I've also encouraged everyone to have their bikini lines viciously waxed before arriving.

Yet I have no idea how many people will come, I've still not spoken to Aurora since I made my confession last Saturday night, and I have no guest-list. To make matters worse, it's the X Factor final on TV. Half the country appears to be transfixed by this programme. I am not one of them - I think it's populist pap lapped up by the incognoscenti. Alas, that view isn't shared by many of my friends, Aurora included. I've still not spoken to her since I last saw her - all I've had is a couple of e-mails and texts. I tried her earlier - no answer on the home phone, or on her mobile. Is she avoiding me? Or was she just in the shower? I guess I'll find out later.

Ten days to go till I turn 30.

PART 1 - EATING
I shouldn’t have ordered the Thai noodles. My poor colleague sitting alongside me in the edit suite doesn’t know what he’s in for. It’s only half-past midnight and I can already feel the gases mixing, evolving, fighting with one another inside my stomach like bickering unborn twins trying to beat each other to the exit.

All my attempts to bring my waist size closer into line with my age have all but failed: the paunch I picked up in Buenos Aires has remained stubbornly rounded. I’ve tried sit-ups, but they never work - after watching me curl my gym trainer assured me my abdominal muscles were actually strong (I therefore reason that I have an extremely modest six pack that simply chooses not to expose itself). In truth, all I probably need do is eat a little less rapidly. But that, to me, is like asking a child to unwrap a present slowly.

Being born at this time of year certainly doesn’t help. I mean, it’s not as bad as September/October, when the Jewish holiday eat-a-thon gets in full-swing (thank G-d gluttony’s a Christian sin!). But still, there’s drinks every other night; there’s meals out on the town; and, of course, the Homer-endorsed custom of eating doughnuts on Chanukah.

Despite turning 30, my mother will, no doubt, insist on making her trademark frosted cake (with 30 candles, one can only imagine). She used to make them in the shape of Dougal from the Magic Roundabout; or in the form of racing car with yellow, liquorice all-sort wheels. I always insisted on a custard-cream filling. But my brother loathed this yellowy mulch. He preferred jam. So my mother would do the decent thing and split the filling half-half. Trouble is, we never knew which half was which. The first slice was always something of a lottery – heaven forbid you should slice the thing straight down the middle and get some custard in your jam or some jammy bits in your custard. I hate blackcurrent jam!

Right now, though, cakey delights are the furthest thing from my mind. Aside from being full right now and on the brink of an early-morning flatulent-induced dystopia, my stomach is still knotted. It has been since Saturday, though I’ve yet to work out whether it was the meat and bean-stew cholent I ate that lunchtime or my confession to my best friend Aurora that I was in love with her.