Before you turn 30
Some magazines suggest that by your 30th birthday you should have experienced one or all of the following: parachuting, threesomes, living in a foreign country, abseiling, bondage, motorcycling, shagging on your office desk, singing karaoke and lesbian sex.

Others advocate a mortgage, a ring on your finger, a successful career (preferably one that is unlikely to involve any desk-shagging), six weeks paid holiday each year, a profitable pension plan and a baby on the way.

No, I am not having a baby!
I turned 30 recently, so I speak with authority. While you may wish to tick off the activities on List A, members of your family are more likely to encourage the ticking off of items on List B.

I am unmarried, with no mortgage and certainly no baby. I do, however, have a decent job and a gorgeous boyfriend. My mother decided to honour the occasion of my 30th birthday by having her wedding ring resized and refitted for me. I was at the fittings. I selected a design to suit my tastes and I tried the ring on for size. Yet, when I opened my little velvet box at my birthday dinner and slipped the ring on, it was at least one size too big. Why? 'Your fingers swell when you're pregnant,' confided my mother… winking conspiratorially at my boyfriend.

With not so much as a crouton in the oven, and no plans to bake one, I could only surmise that - now that I was officially in my 30s - my family was counting on me wanting (and being able to have) children. Soon.

No pressure. No, none whatsoever.

That wasn't all. Along with the ring that was too big came the too-long speech – a rambling and explicit communication on behalf of my mother and sister, describing embarrassing teenage indiscretions, a tendency towards slothfulness (moi?) and detailing isolated moments of bossiness (surely far too minor to bring up at a birthday dinner!).

Socks?
Opening my booty later that evening, I noted that I had received the sorts of gifts I only ever give to people I don't know very well. Candles. Scented soap. Socks.

Socks???? I was turning 30, not 130! Where was the racy underwear? The music vouchers, the gripping novels, the booking of exotic holidays in my name? Was I destined to look back on my 30th birthday with disappointment and discomfort rather than with fondness and delight?

It's not every day your closest friends, family, workmates, boyfriend and boyfriend's parents gather to honour you. It's vital that every incumbent 30-year-old sets some strict survival guidelines to ease the transition from lithe 20-something to lumpy 30-year-old. Here are some helpful tips:

Before the day
Think about how spotty you were in your teens, how drunk you got at your 21st and how broke you were in your 20s and thank your lucky stars that you won't ever have to go through that again. Tape a pic of a gorgeous 30-something celeb, such as Cameron Diaz, Uma Thurman, Kate Moss or Liz Hurley - to your computer/fridge/dashboard and refer to it during any dire pre-birthday moments of panic. Remember, they are all over 30 and fabulous! Banish magazines containing any articles entitled 100 must-do pre-30 activities (they may as well be called Watch Out! You're Running Out Of Time). Instead, make a list of all the amazing things you have done... and gloat. Spend the last days of your 20s pampering yourself. Book yourself in for a facial, a pedicure, and an all-over tan – whatever makes you feel fantastic!

On the day
No matter how cold it is, wear something slightly revealing to your 30th birthday celebration. No, not knicker-revealing... more glimpse-of-cleavage-revealing. Make sure you know (and everyone you know knows) that you've still got it, and aim to flaunt it. Discourage any type of speech making. Should you notice any of the following - tapping of champagne glass with fork, clearing of throats or any members of your family getting to their feet - quickly and loudly draw everyone's attention to the delicious items on the dessert menu. Any birthday cards selected from the 'humour' section of the Paperchase card rack are clearly not from your true friends. 'Funny' cards sporting illustrations of old fat people knitting and hilarious verses about how saggy your breasts are about to get should be marked return to sender and posted directly back to the offender. Unless you already have them, there should be absolutely no mention of husbands or babies at your 30th. You are not Bridget Jones.

Unless you make it into one, turning 30 is not a death sentence - I have plenty of friends who are still having fun and living life well into their 30s (and, believe it or not, their 40s!). Take any well-intentioned-but-frightfully-annoying 30th birthday comments with a pinch of salt... and relax. You only turn 30 once!