Three people have complained to me or their parents in the past two weeks because they are turning 30. Horror of horrors! Having been there (I drank champagne on my own in a small restaurant in Paris), I don’t think it’s too bad.

But friends of mine this morning headed off to the funeral of a young man, 30, who has just died of cancer. Everyone is distraught: he was too young to go. And yesterday was the anniversary of the death of a little girl, age 11, who was kidnapped, tortured and killed in Canada: she would now be 30. I spoke to her mother earlier who told me it’s not the little girl she misses so much as the woman she would have been today.

If 30 is coming up, thank your lucky stars.

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