Hell of throwing my husband 18 birthday dinners: SUSANNAH JOWITT

My husband said to me the other morning: ‘I love your chicken liver pâté. But after this year, I never want to eat it again.’

I can’t blame him. He’s eaten it 17 times in 12 months, always on Thursdays, along with Peking duck, pecan and watermelon salad, and a pudding of coconut rice and mango.

This is not some oddly specific diet I’ve put him on, but part of my year-long campaign to be awarded the prize of best wife ever.

Last November, Anthony turned 60. After the thought of a big, blow-out party filled him with panic, I promised him a series of intimate dinner parties instead.

That way, he could actually enjoy quality time with all the people we would have invited to a big bash, and from the comfort of our own home.

It would, we decided, prove a far more enjoyable experience. More fool me. As the final – 18th – such dinner approaches, just squeezing under the wire before his 61st birthday next week, I sometimes wish I’d never suggested the idea.

Susannah Jowitt has thrown her husband Anthony 18 birthday dinners for his 60th birthday instead of a big, blow-out party

Far from being celebratory, it has left me feeling thoroughly exhausted and occasionally bordering on murderous.

My antipathy has come as a surprise. We’ve always been a sociable couple and host a big party at our home every summer. For Anthony’s 40th, we invited 40 friends to a long weekend in Amsterdam, and for my 50th our 150 guests danced the night away to a live band.

In the run-up to Anthony’s 60th, we’d come up with a list of 180 friends he’d like to see (he’s a popular chap) and had sent out a ‘save the date’.

I started looking into party venues near our home in west London, but couldn’t believe the cost. Factoring in venue hire, catering and booze, we were looking at least £10,000.

You only turn 60 once, so we were prepared to stomach it. But in October, with the venue still unbooked, Anthony had a meltdown.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want a party,’ he begged. ‘I realise now I hate big parties. I always get trapped in the corner by the one person I didn’t want to invite and never get to speak to the people I do want to see. They’re too expensive and too forgettable. Can we just not?’

The couple hosted 18 groups of eight to 12 people, which has cost a rough total of £4,000

That’s when I had my Eureka moment – or, as we have described it since, more of an ‘eek’ moment.

‘You love dinners, so let’s just invite all those people to dinner, spread over the year so it’s not too painful.’

Anthony told me I was a genius, I glowed with approbation and the plan was set in motion: 18 dinner parties of eight to 12 people, coming in at a rough total of £4,000.

Yet what we would save in money we would spend in sheer bloody effort.

The first dinner was on his 60th itself. We started with our closest family, treating it as a practice run in which to test out how to elevate these evenings beyond an ordinary dinner (we’d already decided we couldn’t endure 18 rounds of birthday cake and singing).

One party down, we decided to start the rest in February; too many people busy in December, too many people on diets in January.

Our first principle was to mix up the friendship groups – from university pals to work mates. We came up with 18 perfect combinations.

Of course, chaos ensued, as multiple guests said they couldn’t make their assigned dates. The admin involved to work it all out made me long for the simplicity of one party.

I had decided to cook the same thing every time – including the aforementioned dreaded pâté – for simplicity’s sake. Yet a year on, my arms are criss-crossed with burns from the oven and steaming pans, my taste buds and psyche equally scarred.

By the time we’d completed the first instalment of dinners before taking a break over summer, Anthony and I were both thoroughly sick of the inevitable: ‘Wow, you’re 60, eh’ conversations. And while guests to a big do may not have felt that presents were expected, our dinner party guests all felt obliged to cough up, despite my bleating about ‘your presence is enough’. ‘Are you running a bookshop as a side hustle?’ my daughter asked mildly when she saw the table we’ve been piling high with these offerings.

Seventeen parties down, next week I will resignedly prepare the final chicken livers and plaster on my best party smile. Anthony says he has loved every single party and has been at pains to thank me very sweetly every time we close the front door on that week’s departing guests. I suspect he’d do it all again.

But after this I’m done with entertaining, done with dinner party talk, done with cooking, pre-party tidying, decorating and after-party clean-ups. I find myself dreaming of spending a month alone in a hotel.

My own 60th isn’t until 2028. Will I expect Anthony to return the favour? Frankly, I’d quite like a medal ceremony, if the King is free.

I feel I’m owed an OBE – for Outstandingly Brilliant Entertainer. But I’ll settle for one big party, with loud music and no talking, anywhere other than in our house.