It looks like the sun has deigned to come out on my last day of being forty-eight—some small compensation for the clock ticking inexorably towards the “big 5-0” next year.
Actually, it’s no compensation at all. . . .
We’re going to go out for a meal tomorrow, but there’ll be no real celebrations, and certainly no cake—not that you’d be able to see any cake for all the bloody candles.
And I’d probably have a seizure trying to blow them out.
Or start a potentially serious fire if I couldn’t.
Or both. . . .
As for next year, well I doubt it’ll be any different, although affordable life cover (with no medical—acceptance guaranteed) will be available and I’ll get a Parker pen just for enquiring. Marvellous, I’m always losing pens. Elaine and I have already decided (seeing as we were born just three weeks apart) on a joint party, that will involve lots of drink—and just two guests.
You can enquire about coming—non-acceptance guaranteed—but you
will receive a half-chewed William Hill biro for asking.
At least my fiftieth won’t be any worse than my fortieth, which came less than three months after revelations that changed the course of my life forever. It was the absolute worst of times, but ultimately (albeit indirectly) led me to where I am now I suppose . . . married to someone I absolutely adore.
But first I’ve got to contend with twelve months of being forty-nine—the last time my age will be a ball in the lottery. Hopefully it will be a good year; I’m so excited about having my Doctor Who book published, but writing doesn’t pay the bills and with major changes imminent at work, I suppose there will be more unsettling times ahead.
That said, I can’t influence whatever decisions are made, but at least I know that each and every day begins and ends with Elaine and, to be honest, that is the best birthday gift of all.
All my own work... almost.