Yes, it’s that time of year when my 49th birthday rolls around yet again. I’ve come to quite like it. And so I should.
I’ve celebrated my 49th so many times now that it’s beginning to feel like an old friend.
A bit like the well-worn jumper that you always feel comfortable in. You know where you are with it. It’s trustworthy, dependable, reliable.
Or so it has been, thus far.
But over the past six months there have been a few hints sneaking in that it might actually be time for a small upgrade.
A whole month sleeping in a reclining armchair due to an infamous, Federer inspired, right knee incident didn’t help.
Neither did recent news that this and other contingencies might need a bit of outside intervention, with some subsequent recuperation firmly on the agenda.
And being called “old boy” by one of my younger Facebook birthday well-wishers, while obviously misguided and wildly inaccurate, was still a bit of a jolt.
And as for the calendar! What a joke! A ridiculous publication with little relevance to the real world.
I mean to say, mix it with a bit of simple arithmetic and you come up with absurd answers that suggest 49 is optimistic at best, and ludicrous at worst.
Which is why I’ve always used the following formula to calculate your age.
Take the sum total of your life experiences, add a percentage for the ones you seem to remember but are not quite sure you want to own up to, and then divide the answer by the number you require to come up with whatever figure you think you can get away with on the day.
It’s worked a treat for me so far. But as I say, of late the “get away with” part of that is entering a bit of a grey area.
Which might seem like a very poor joke, except that in my case, it’s not a joke at all because for the “grey” association to have any relevance actually requires having enough hair left on your head to give it at least some level of meaning!
But enough of all that. Because perhaps it’s time to bite the bullet and move on. And, after all, 49 is probably over-rated.
An entire year spent in trepidation of the axe which is going to fall at the end of it. Who’d want to go through that on a perennial basis, apart from apparently myself. So where to move on to, seems be the question.
And I’m thinking 52 has a good ring to it. Just something about it. A nice rounded number and, let’s face it, three years more realistic than 49. Yes, let’s stick with 52. When you think of it, it’s a whole new persona. I think I sort of like it. You know where you are at 52. A bit like the old jumper, only just a bit more worn.
I always respect a man who can own to his age. A sign of maturity and self-confidence. So it’s 52 for the next decade at least!
PS: Actually, given the armchair incident, perhaps we’d better pencil in a small reassessment at somewhere around the half decade. But don’t tell anyone about that, and we’ll see how we’re travelling then.
PPS: For this and other riveting arm-chair reads please consider my new blog. Just search
Roger Thorrowgood, Inverloch.