Tracey Emin: My Life In A Column

It's my birthday today. It's one of those days when it doesn't feel like it's my birthday. Some days in the year you wake up and everything feels tingly and special. If I'm really honest, tingly and special are not two words I would use to describe myself today. Bleak and plump seem more appropriate.

But saying that, I was at a friend's party last night and a younger person did sidle up to me and say: "How come you are so thin and your tits are so big?" I then proceeded to take away any myth or illusion that they may have had by explaining the various lumps and bumps on my body that give me varying degrees of dissatisfaction. And as I stood there and minced and mused like a contemporary Oscar Wilde about the pros and cons of youth and age, the young person just cut through everything and said: "But you are sexy." I then asked them, if they had to have a bath with anyone in the room, who would it be? This then led on to a whole different topic of conversation, because both of us opted for the people who might give us the most intellectual stimulation. Blow the bubble factor, it's good conversation we want!

It is odd, this thing with age; if I think about the past 15 years and how fast it's gone. When I was 30, I felt so indestructible, Sarah Lucas and I had a party, titled: Fantastic to be 30 Party – Old Enough to Do Whatever She Fucking Wants. I remember that moment of waking up and being 30, the clarity, the relief, so happy to be away from my twenties, one of my most unhappy decades. In my thirties, my life changed, my mind altered and I started to like myself. Then, on my 40th birthday, everything seemed to be about recovery and I was just happy to be alive. Everything seemed like a glorious bonus, due to the fact that I had almost died a few months before.

But now, five years later, I feel like I am rolling into the bleak and plumpy years. I feel that my young friend who referred to my sexiness was intelligently making reference to my lack of mumsiness (like a young boy from the Isle of Dogs, who pinned me to the bar in an East End pub once, saying: "I like you. Old bird, well seasoned!"). I deeply regretted at that point that my mind had no graphic limitations. As this young man tried to make further advances towards me, I just didn't want to think about it! But I do know as I get older I'm probably going to have more and more regret about not being more sexually promiscuous. And it's not like I don't know what I'm missing.

Tonight, I am having a dinner party, but what I really should be having is a giant Roman orgy. Everybody laying around spoiling themselves in the Turkish baths, the steam rising up, wine and grapes being passed around as the lions stand guard, roaring, at the entrance to my palace. A couple of senators are in the corner, arguing, while a group slope off for some extra activity after having an aggressive game of backgammon. A solo harpist plays naked in the corner and I happily lie in a pool of effervescent water, surrounded by rose petals, and my very closest friends, as we discuss the latest gods and sacrifices.

Every year I have some kind of party. And every year I think I'm actually too old for it. In a way I feel quite silly. I'd like to just be really cool and modest, and if people remember, it's just a charming part of the day. But instead, my birthday is always like a major astrological event, like some giant meteor flying through the heavens on a pathway to shake up every dimension known to man, fifth, sixth and otherwise.

Maybe it's because I always had to share my birthday as a child. I do still share the date with my brother, Paul, but not a cake that's half pink and half blue. This is the last, spoilt, rich birthday I remember having as a child. The cake was brought to school and it was the size of an entire table. I remember at the age of five feeling slightly disturbed by the whole situation.

But not now; Stargazy pie, perry jelly, my favourite chef – and even though I try to do it in a very mature way, I know it's still going to come across as 45 going on eight. There's still going to be some point this evening when I am going to stamp my foot! Life should be celebrated. I never thought I would get to 45. I never in a million years would have believed that my life would be so immensely gratifying, fun, generous, lucky, happy may be pushing it, but it really is very good. And that's why I like to have a party, it's a way of saying thank you for last year and never taking anything for granted. So thank you to all my friends, just help me get through another year and I hope I've behaved slightly better than I did last year; I'm working on it!

PS: If you stole my bird, Roman Standard, from Liverpool Oratory, or you know anybody who stole my bird, and even if you are a fan, please can you put it back or leave it in the Cathedral. Because you didn't steal from me, you stole it from the people of Liverpool, and if I were you, I would be very afraid!

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