Day 37 of things to be happy about and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to get to the subject of ageing.


I have known people, some of them lovely, some ridiculous, who have held genuine dread for certain ages.


There’s a panic which sets in when someone realises the next birthday is… whatever it is. Some ages seem to come with very specific responsibilities. These responsibilities, as might be expected, are – in general – supremely dull.

I’m talking about things like council tax and mortgage repayments.

Perhaps I’m just lucky to have been raised the way I was because I’ve never really measured myself against anyone else. Not everyone falls in love the second Wednesday after they turn twenty-two, not everyone goes to university, not everybody buys a house.


There’s no right age for anything. You can only do your thing, whatever that might mean.
And yet, I have known people who have had terrible fears about turning thirty, forty, fifty, etcetera, because of what it might mean.

In fairness, no one wants to turn etcetera.


Now, my next decent-sized birthday is forty. I’m not bothered. Frankly, I think I’m going to rock forty.

And weighed against the alternative, I have no problem with ageing like a paper bag.