Yes, yes – age is just a number…. but multiples of 11 seem to harden that number a little.
Not to the point that I really care – unless it crashes out of my mouth with spittle and bile following:
“I hear it’s your birthday. How old are you?”
“Forty Fucking Four!”
I won’t do that nonsense of reflecting back – my hardships have been far outweighed by my privilege, luck and good looks. Nor will I embarrass anyone, by standing up in a pub and giving a speech of such cringeworthy magnitude, that those around me recoil – and the barman turns the music up. Ah… 40. That was a day where I did feel like being all me, me, me!
Instead I will potter around the house, watch the Giro, give thanks for what I have got. Then we will go as a family to Zucco in Meanwood, for a feed and a drink befitting of someone who is trying to make sure they at least get to 77. By that point the kids will be settled, the country will be on its knees and there will be a long queue of blue passport holders at the Swiss border – looking for a quick and pain free way out.
So cheers to you all.
Mines’s a large isotonic and recovery chaser!