Happy 33rd Birthday. You’re the same age as Jesus when he died.

33 hits next week.

It’s like a useless speed limit where life passes slowly out the window because you’re not supposed to go faster.

Double 3 sounds like some kind of breast size without the titillation.

You’re past that point when harking back to your twenties – last year you think – just isn’t factually correct. You can still pretend.

You’re not quite mid-thirties, which always sounds much better when talking about the weather.

It’s the moment you realise that whatever you spouted as a young ‘un, you were definitely wrong.

People in their thirties are not old. They’re not slow. And they’re certainly not boring. Right?

You’re in thirties purgatory. The bit after the start of The Great Depression and pre looming WW2.

Or post-Uni, pre-family, as it’s now called.

You can now easily recall meaningless stats like 33 per cent of the Earth’s land surface is dessert… or desert… something like that.

You still love ice cream.

Your clothes fit in only peculiar ways despite favourable camera angles and subtle lighting.

It’s walking past the mirror and wondering who moved in.

FOMOS or Fear of Missing Out on Sleep stalks each prospective morning and evening activity.

MOFO now only means the Most Offensive Food Offered at a dinner party.

With 33 vertebrae in my spine I’m subconsciously aligning with my body’s number. Yet, my back couldn’t be more out of sync.

Flirty-thirty is dead.

Long live nightly-pee, thirty three.