MARRIAGE is all about sacrifice.

For example, I fold my husband's clean shirts just the way he likes, even though it takes up valuable seconds of my time, because he hates doing it and also suffers from chronic laziness.

I also try not to kick him TOO hard when he snores.

And Smithy - the kind-hearted gent that he is - is more than willing to eat the last of the biscuits to save me from the calories.

"I'm giving up my waistline...for you!" he says, as he reaches for the final chocolate digestive.

"This," he continues, through a mouthful of crumbs, "is how much I love you."

His generosity knows no bounds.

And his latest 'act of kindness', as he has been keen to phrase it, is to decline any part in the planning of my 30th birthday in order to 'save me' from his terrible organisational skills.

"I would have spent hours planning something fantastic," he explained, apologetically. "But you know it'll be better if you do it."

I don't know anything of the sort.

But that doesn't stop him from smiling magnanimously, and adding: "It's just a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

So now I - equally disorganised and suffering from a severe case of baby brain - have been left with the Great Stress of organising an event in just six weeks, which is suitable for everyone from my friends to the baby and my nonagenarian grandmother.

This would be hard for anyone, but especially so for someone who, quite frankly, couldn't organise a tea party in a doll's house.

I'm the person who books train tickets for the right time but the wrong day.

I'm the person who remembers five minutes after the supermarkets close that I don't have anything in for tea.

And I'm the person who once packed my bags, checked out of a hotel and walked all the way to the train station...a day early.

A party planner I am not - and there's every chance this milestone may end up being completely bypassed, as I instead sob my way into my dotage, alone, over a pint of G&T.

And let's be honest - I'll probably still be late.