I turned 47 earlier this week, an event that really didn’t matter much at all.

It’s not that it wasn’t celebrated. It’s not that I didn’t get some nice cards and gifts. It’s that I really don’t feel any different and don’t intend changing as a result.

I’ve never been the kind of person who enters another decade with drama and mourning for “lost youth”. I’m a firm believer that you’re only as old as you act! And as I hurtle towards 50, I feel more gratitude than sadness.

Given how many people lost their lives during COVID and how many have needlessly died in the year since Ukraine was invaded (to name but two recent depressing examples) I’m frankly happy to be still breathing and making noise.

I’m also not planning a mid-life crisis – though I have to wonder how frequently these are planned. Rather than just spontaneously appearing one day in the form of a loud car and an affair.

That said, I’m not the same person I was twenty years ago. I’m better. I’ve learnt. I’ve grown. I’ve stepped out of quite a few self-limiting beliefs. And I have far fewer fucks to give when it comes to repressive social “niceties” and conventions. Less smiling politely, more explaining how I disagree.

Fifty will be quite the landmark and I look forward to celebrating it. But given the world we appear to live in now, I’ll be trying to celebrate each day until then too.

So, flying in the face of my earlier confident announcements about a beer-free life, I’ll be heading to the pub later to celebrate my birthday with close friends. And yes, I will enjoy some delicious craft beer. And fried chicken. Because “carpe diem” and whatnot.