I threw myself a thirtieth birthday celebration as huge as a marriage

‘I still haven’t decided what I’m wearing to my wedding,’ I lamented to a friend as we sunbathed in the park.

‘Your what?’ she replied, hand on my arm with concern.

Realising what I’d said, I replied: ‘Oh dear, it’s going to my head a little, isn’t it?’

Because there was no wedding. Nor was there an engagement, let alone a groom. Hell, there wasn’t even a boyfriend. But there was a 30th birthday party, which I’d planned with the grandeur of a wedding.

Last year, aged 29, as more of my friends were throwing lavish parties to mark their married status, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I wanted to be celebrated, to enjoy a big party surrounded by my loved ones, even if I wasn’t going to make it down the aisle any time soon. 

So in honour of my 30th birthday, I decided to throw one showstopper of an event with all of the pomp and pageantry reserved for brides and grooms. It would last an entire weekend. There would be speeches. A sit-down dinner. Cocktails, canapés, and an enormous cake. I’d even wear white.

All this might sound a little silly, even mad – perhaps aptly, the theme for the party was ‘Mad Hatter’ – but there was a serious point. A lot of my friends are married – some have children. This means that in the last few years, I’ve spent a fair amount of time (and money) travelling to various celebrations for which society tells us we must pull out all the stops, even if you barely know your friend’s spouse-to-be.

The second the invitation lands on your doormat, you’re expected to clear your diary a year in advance. Wear a fancy but respectable outfit. Pay for a hotel room in a town you’ve never heard of. Post photos of people throwing confetti on Instagram. Buy train tickets. And so on.

I don’t resent any of this, nor am I anti-marriage. I’ve loved every wedding I’ve been to, regardless of how far I’ve had to travel and how much money I’ve had to spend – the most expensive was £1,000 for a three-day event in the south of France. But having been single for the last two years, I’ve started to wonder why we reserve this degree of commitment for couples saying ‘I do’.

What are single people left with? Which occasions warrant the same degree of celebration? When do we get our chance to shine? 

The answer is never. Not unless you go on to find someone to marry you. Only then will you be entitled to the same levels of attention and adoration.

It’s all a bit archaic, really, creating a social hierarchy with couples perched on the top tier, sipping champagne and eating oysters, while single people flail around at the bottom, glugging warm white wine.

After a difficult few months – a combination of health scares, work stress and romantic malaise – I decided that a taste of the top-tier life would be nice. Hence my birthday-slash-wedding extravaganza. 

I found the perfect venue – Montigo Resorts at Charlton House in Somerset, which is regularly used for weddings – and enlisted the hotel’s wedding planner to help me organise the dream event.

The plan was simple: guests would arrive on Friday evening for a rehearsal dinner-style night in the hotel’s restaurant before spending all of Saturday relaxing in the spa and gathering for a second night, when the main party would take place. I would stay in the bridal suite with two of my closest friends. Complete with a standing bathtub, private terrace and a four-poster bed, it was the ultimate birthday bedroom.

For the invite, I used a website that makes digital wedding invitations, giving guests six months’ notice. I wanted as many of my friends there as possible, inviting 50 people.

When I first told friends about my plan to throw a birthday like it was a wedding, a few of them laughed, presuming I was joking. Those who knew me best, however, simply smiled.

I was pleased that many people were immediately on board, readily booking hotel rooms and carving out the weekend in their diaries. After all, I’d done the same for a lot of them over the years.

But it didn’t take long to be reminded of my position in the traditional hierarchy.

Many declined, some having already committed to weddings, others because they had young children at home. And a few just never replied. Out of everyone I’d invited, just one officially RSVP’d using the specially created email address I’d provided.

Then, in the weeks leading up to the party, there were the dropouts that made me consider packing in the plan entirely. In the end, though, I stuck it out. But work, family, and other commitments meant that just eight people ended up gathering for the Friday night, while 25 made it for Saturday.

I get it, and people’s reasons were valid. But would the flakiness have happened if this was actually my wedding?

There was a part of me that started to regret it all in the days leading up to my bash. Had I gone too far? 

But this sentiment faded on Friday night, when I was surrounded by some of my closest friends, laughing at an old photo album my mum had brought. We ended the night with a ceremonial Caterpillar Cake (Marks & Spencer, of course) and I woke up feeling eager for the big day.

Getting ready in the room with my friends was a highlight — indulging our girliest selves, we critiqued and complimented one another’s outfits while blasting out The Spice Girls.

I fully committed to my role as pseudo-bride, having a pre-party massage in the hotel spa as well as a facial by beautician to the stars, The Skin Sculpter. I’d also spent hundreds on five outfits for the whole weekend, including beautiful Bordelle lingerie.

The first was a white sequin mini dress from Miscreants, a London-based brand renowned for its avant garde designs. Paired with lace bunny ears, white stockings, and a red jacket with fluffy cuffs on the sleeves, I felt like a cross between a bride and Bridget Jones at that fancy dress party. But in a good way.

For the second look, I wore a bright pink tulle gown from my favourite designer, Molly Goddard – if I ever do get married, that’s the brand I would wear for the big day. And for my third and final outfit, I wore a sheer scarlet jumpsuit with cutouts on the front and silver heart-shaped buttons.

As for the party, there was a beautiful stretch tent with fairy lights, balloons sourced locally, a floral cake and even some live music during the reception. For dinner, we had a barbecue, displayed on silver trays in true wedding style. Bespoke cocktails were served throughout the night. And my good friend Emma delivered a speech, pontificating about the joys of celebrating singlehood in a society that constantly tells women to do the opposite.

To those who turn their nose up at all this, or call me a ‘self-important millennial’, I say it’s time to let go of your nonsensical traditional values. How much money have you spent celebrating couples? Why be so limited in your capacity to honour the people you love? Don’t be so old-fashioned.

It might not have been a wedding, and I did spend thousands on a single weekend, but my 30th was probably the happiest night of my life to date.

To be surrounded by that much love and joy without even having to go on a single date was, quite frankly, wildly liberating and fulfilling. All single people should be entitled to a night like that. And who knows, if I’m still single by the time I turn 40, I might do it all over again.