So, now I am forty eight years old - or at least that's what the growth rings on my belly seem to indicate. Forty eight. It doesn't actually sound very old, but back in my youth - and observing my parents who were both thirty five years older than me - it seemed to be an advanced age; a time when nylon 'slacks', drab anoraks, hairstyles harking back to the fifties and appalling 'loafer' style shoes were mandatory. All that has changed - not for me the behaviours of my parents - I am a 'happening' mid-lifer, with an eighties haircut, brightly coloured raincoats and completely trendy khaki trousers. Oh yes I'm 'down' with the whole modern man thing, and my teenage kids love nothing more than to walk down the street with their cool dad.
I may be being cruel - I admit it - but fantasising about making him feel worse makes me feel better about getting older more quickly than I would wish. Does that make me seem like a bad person? It does? Oh...crap. I take it all back then. Too late?
Yes, I'm working my way to miserable-old-bastardom remorselessly if somewhat reluctantly. Soon (but not next year, IN YOUR FACE, AGE!) I'll hit the big half century but until then I shall remain steadfastly forty-something: See if I don't.