My husband has been worrying all week that I'm going to mock him for the birthday present he has requested.

I wouldn't dream of it. All right, so some may say that asking for a lawnmower is a bit sad and suburban. But who am I to stand between a man and his rotary blade?

Actually, he isn't getting it. The Honda model he specified has been discontinued and he hasn't found anything comparable in B&Q.

He is a bit fussy when it comes to mechanical equipment. He likes to inspect all the widgets and flibbets and give them a test drive to find out if they're guaranteed to survive a nuclear missile attack.

And he knows a thing or two about mowers - or so he tells me. One of his first jobs was maintaining the park-sized lawn of his parents' hotel.

He still gets excited when he sees sit-on mowers. Our lawn is more parking space than park but that doesn't mean we have to settle for a push-me-pull-you pile of old metal, says he.

Until he finds one that meets the grade (anyone know what they use at Wimbledon?) he has changed his birthday present list to include a new cycling helmet, which will be an easy trip to Halfords for me, and a couple of obscure jazz CDs, for which I may have to put out an appeal on local radio.

Our lawn, for the time being, has been turned into an unmanaged meadow. I hope the wildlife appreciate it.

As for celebrating his big day, my husband has gone all Eeyore-ish about it. At the beginning of June he was interested in having a small party to mark the event. But as the weeks have passed, he has become more and more gloomy.

"We can't hold a party. Nobody likes me and it would be too embarrassing if no one turned up," he moped.

"You're worrying needlessly," I replied. "People go to parties regardless of whether or not they like the person. It's free entertainment.

"Look at how many turned up for Fatboy Slim's bash. If he can double the population of Brighton and Hove in one night, I'm sure we could find 20 people willing to come to ours for a barbecue."

Perhaps I wasn't all that convincing with my argument. It didn't seem to cheer him up. Now all he wants to do is have a lager shandy in a beer garden with me and the kids.

Every year he's like this. Last year he was all geared up to have a ride in a hot air balloon for his birthday treat until he decided his fear of heights would get the better of him. Instead, he opted for a Le Creuset grill pan and a chicken chow mein in Haywards Heath.

For his 30th a few years ago he did have a small shindig but he told his friends it was his stag night. (We did, in fact, get married a month later). He and his mates all got drunk but he didn't get a single of card out of them.

I've suggested that in the future I could perhaps organise a surprise party for him.

"That would be good," he said, perking up. "Because if no one turned up, I'd be none the wiser."

There is no hope for the boy.