Me at fifty-five (and a bit)

My eldest daughter, Charlie, recently had her thirtieth birthday. I still remember the slightly giddy feeling of those milestone birthdays. When you're really young, you can't wait to be ten, thirteen, sixteen, or eighteen.

Then things feel like they're slipping away from you a bit. Blimey, I'm twenty-one! Can I really be thirty? Hang on, where did forty come from? I didn't agree to that!

Actually, I really enjoyed my forties: I didn't feel so precocious, I felt comfortable in my own skin.

Fifties, though? Bloody hell. If I read a story in the paper and it mentions the protagonist is in his fifties, I picture someone at least ten years older than me. And then the sinking realisation: that's my age!

But then I remember that this is the really good bit. I'm fit and healthy, through luck and exercise, I enjoy my work in a job that I love, and I have time on my hands to explore and do the things that really interest me. I have wonderful children and a partner that I couldn't love more.

Age, chums, is just a number.

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Reading: 'Jews Don't Count' by David Baddiel