Shut up about Barclay Perkins - Lucid and mobile
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I was prompted to consider my mortality again by a Twitter post of Rebecca Pate. Fretting about the Grim Reaper's approach when turning 35.
Consider yourself lucky to be so young, was my first thought. My second: you shouldn't be worrying about death when you're under 60.
I regularly have a birthday party. Once every decade: 40, 50, 60. The interval may reduce to five years as get further down death's highway. No point denying the inevitable goosestep of time. May as well embrace and attempt to smother it.
The exact moment, I'm not sure of, but there was a point, when, rather than seeing each year added as another milestone on the road to extinction, I began viewing my age as a cricket score. Each number added, a little victory.
I've knocked off 62. Like a nervous lower-order English batsman, at the crease early after the usual high-order collapse, I'm amazed to have got such a high score. I'm setting myself little goals. Not dreaming of a century, but determined to hit 70.
That's my current aim. 70. Lucid and mobile.
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