31

Age, it is just a number after all but it doesn’t seem that way. It takes on a life of its own; an arbitrary statistic that hangs around like an unwelcome guest at a party, irritating not merely by its presence but by the fact it exists at all. It’s a party; things should be good, relaxed, happy. Anything that doesn’t fit with the ebb and flow of familiar conversation jars, butting into everyone’s subconscious, becoming part of the problem but so entwined with the whole fiasco that to remove it would mean ending everything. It’s the rubbish colleague at work whom everyone thinks should be fired but if they were, the conversation in the staff room would become stilted and boring. It’s the dry, disgusting cake that a random relative bakes that you know is going to be horrible but you eat it anyway because you know you have to and perhaps, one day, it will be better.

My number is 31. I’m lucky, I’ve managed to do most of what I set out to do by now but there are things missing, wife, kids, an Irish Setter called “Dog”. But I’m not ready; the number doesn’t fit my psyche. Sometimes it feels like I am wearing another man’s body, the number etched on my forehead like a crude practical joke. Why do we define it so? Why is it so important? I suppose it’s because we mark out our lives by events, birth and death the bookends, our experiences the books, with coloured markers to highlight the expected milestones; birthdays, education, first kiss, virginity, marriage, birth of the firstborn, grandkids, retirement... Mine has some interesting, funny and thought provoking books but most of the coloured markers sit stacked at the end, like lifetime confetti. A life yet to be lived.

But I struggle with this view; I struggle with the notion of what is expected of me, it is partly why I am where I am today and not in an office in London making numbers dance for faceless people. I want my life to be marked by the people I meet, by the lives I touch and by the things I do that make a difference. I want to be judged by who I am not what I have done, but that is difficult because what we do is part of who we are, what we have achieved is part of the plethora of bricks that builds our soul. I know the coloured markers will one day be placed amongst the many books I still have to write but I no longer fear that fate as I once did. Still the number sits astride the bookcase, smiling his fateful grin and waving his hand in mocking metronome, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock ....

An aside: thank you for the many kind words and comfort I received from the last post but I can assure everyone I am happy with who I am and where I am. As one famous author once said, a writer is someone who writes and whilst I try to actually write something proper like, I will continue to write this blog. Still it is good to know there are so many people who care about me, that is both touching and warming and I thank you again.