What does your birthday mean to you?
I only ask because today...I'm 41. I remember writing about turning 35 - and wondering how on earth I'd got all those years. It was like one day I'd been 19 - hating my life, reading deep books, and with a vague feeling that, although I hadn't actually enjoyed most the sex I'd had so far, I still wanted more, and surely it would get better with practice.
And the next day I was thirty-something - hating my life, reading deep ebooks, and with a vague feeling that...well, yes.
Oh what a nieve young sprog of 35 I was! 35 is only about halfway through life, while 41 is, most definitely, more than halfway.
Although I'm not much older than I was yesterday, it makes a difference on paper. In the same way that driving with a licence and driving without is a paper difference.
So how to mark - but not exactly celebrate - the day when I'm abruptly, but now most undeniably, the wrong side of 40?
Last night, eating far too much in a swanky resteraunt with the boss. How swanky? It was so posh there was a swimming pool in the middle of the dining area.
It was so upper crust there was a completely pointless - but exquisitely designed - set of steps between the reception area and the consumption area. Thus all the (nicely polished) food trolleys had to be carried down the stairs by teams of waiters, thus neatly defeating the entire point of putting food on trolleys at all.
That's what high class means - doing awkward, purposeless things stylishly, because the purpose is just to be stylish, and it wouldn't be the right kind of stylish if it weren't awkward and there were some other, practical purpose.
And today...making myself an extra two cups of tea - in the coffee percolator, partly 'cos that's how I roll, but mainly 'cos the kettle doesn't work - and buying some chocolate biscuits, especially to dunk in them.
My first chocolate biscuits in 3 months. And tonight, the other half of the packet with some 70s british sci-fi. And then it's the weekend. That's how I'm turning 41.