THREE cheers! Hip hip hurrah! For she's a jolly good fellow!

You may or may not have guessed by these joyous proclamations that it will soon be my birthday.

I shall be turning a quarter-of-a-century-old. I am closing the gap on 30 and am supposed to be a dutiful adult. Pah!

There is pretty much nothing responsible about me and the older I get the more I shun those connotations that there is a direct correlation between getting older and wiser.

You see it is much more fun to party with an iron will that would put Maggie Thatcher to shame and in turn forget about being mature.

The elder demographic may call my generation weak-willed and accuse us of spending with wild abandon but this is what makes us HAPPY.

I don't see this as problematic. I want hedonism here and now, which is perfect as my 25th anniversary falls just after the Easter weekend.

There are pros and cons to this.

Plus point: Four glorious days off work and four promising nights stretch ahead of me for me to enjoy as I choose or see fit. This is surely the route to Bacchanalian antics.

Minus point: The actual day of my birthday is Tuesday March 25. The day we GO BACK TO WORK.

This is bad enough in ordinary working land where everyone shunts in hungover and miserable but the body blow is 10-fold in the wonderful world of journalism. We will all shuffle in on my birthday complaining about having lost two days on which to "get the papers out." As you can imagine my big day ain't gonna be a picnic!

You see my life is split between two ethics: Work hard. Play hard. But they are very much at odds with one another, which is why I shall use the fact my birthday falls on the year's longest weekend (or nearabouts) to its fullest advantage and feel the painful consequences come Tuesday.

So there you go, I realise I am a very lucky girl to have the weekend at my beck and call with nights galore mapped out at my leisure and believe me when I say: "I do what I want!" No remorse, regets or repercussions.

This Bank Holiday coupled with the birthday excuse is the perfect foil for pretending I have no responsibilities. The proof of this is in the pudding. Or should that be the birthday cake that will be consumed during one of the many celebratory nights out.

So I shall bumble on like the immature, yet to grow up "kidult" that I am. Failing that a career as a clown could always be an option further down the line...