Every year, it’s the same. What shall I do for my birthday? The pressure to organise something special begins to mount as the day approaches, but instead I daydream about being someone else, someone who likes birthdays. Sometimes there is a flicker of optimism. I think, “Fuck it, I’ll throw a party!” Then I look for an excuse to snuff it out.

This year’s excuse is the backyard. It is crammed full with a wardrobe, ladders, three bicycles, a homemade table that collapsed and green recycling bags. One of the ladders now doubles as a shoe-rack, with running shoes, redundant football boots and my Converse All-Stars on permanent display.

I recently added a pair of silver sandals to the collection – an orange mold was growing inside them. I put them on the ladder, safely, so the mold wouldn’t blow away.

The pine wardrobe was too small for a newly co-habiting couple – every time I opened the doors I found my clothes had crossed into J’s territory – so I replaced it, and arranged our clothes in neatly hanging rows and folded layers.

“Great idea,” J said when he got home, “but where did you put the old wardrobe?”

I opened the living room door to reveal it blocking the hallway between bedroom and bathroom. It couldn’t stay there, so we put it in the yard. That was two years ago. Now, on the top of it, I can see two airbed pumps tangled up in a red lagging jacket and a pair of brown suede boots. The boots are covered with dried-in muck from my trip to Castle Palooza last year. I took a herbal e and danced in torrential rain to one member of Sister Sledge. Live! In Tullamore! I also presumed herbal meant good for you. I think: maybe I should hide this stuff in the wardrobe. But that would make it a permanent piece of outdoor furniture, so I leave it.

Down at the back wall, weeds and broken pegs with their tiny springs exposed are scattered about the damp paving stones. A jasmine plant – which doesn’t get enough sun to flower – creeps along the wall and under bits of brick. Hidden in its dark-green shade there are two mirrors from an old bathroom cabinet, a ceramic frog and a single bluebell that sprouts each year without coaxing. Several footballs huddle together in the corner.

On the right-hand side of the yard there is a flower bed. I planted seeds to create a wildflower meadow, but only one gigantic ferny stalk appeared. It turned out to be dill. Above this two gaudy pots and their Alpine wares stand out against the white wall. They were a leaving present from my last job and when I look at them I think of freedom, open skies and the colour blue. If I got rid of the wardrobe I could get a table and chair and write these things down.

On the windowsill, beside the lavender plant, three night-lights sit unhung. They are half-filled with old rain; each one has a lopsided candle stuck to the bottom. They’ve been sitting there since this time last year. When I bought them I imagined a string of fairy-lights hanging outside the window. And beyond them, beyond the confines of the yard, I thought of a long garden filled with people and the air around them carrying the scent of jasmine, the babble of conversation, and loose jazz notes off towards a distant green light.