They say good things come in threes and in my case it is true.
I’m not talking about fruitcake, marzipan and icing.
Or packs of festive sock packs.
But they are good, too.
No, I’m talking about the fact that every year I wait 11 and a half months for a fantastic fortnight.
Then, spaced with exactly a week between each, comes Christmas, new year and my birthday.
Like well-timed kings carrying gifts of mulled wine, sparklers and cake.
Or something like that.
I’ll admit for years I wished I had been born in the summer.
Not just because the celebrations would be spread out, but so I would be able to entertain the idea of a barbeque or going paint balling – without the risk of drowning or it being dark before 5pm.
But to be honest, I am growing to like it how it is.
After all, what is not to like?
Christmas is, of course, my favourite.
The joy of trying to remember where you have hidden all the presents and then having to do one-handed battles with Sellotape.
And while the person who was supposed to be helping pretends the wrapping paper roll is a light sabre and attempts to start a fight...
It’s a great occasion on its own.
Then there are new years, the annual battle to ignite sparklers on the top of a hill, in the rain.
That’s before watching the fireworks, having a sip of bubbly and then heading home again.
But then, when it is all over, and most people pack away the festivities and wonder what all the fuss was about, I still have one final fling with fun.
This year will see me finally climb to the middle of my 20s.
Two and a half decades, a quarter of a century... or, as my younger sister, puts it – really old.
I can’t wait.
From where I am sitting, 2013 looks very lucky indeed.