Saturday, 11 June 2016


It's been a long time since I went to a thirtieth birthday party.

My own thirtieth was a milestone least wanted. I was happy to turn twenty-one, I was happy to turn forty, I was happy to turn fifty and I was happy to turn sixty. However, I remember that turning thirty was somehow an unwanted milestone. I was definitely no longer a teenager, of course, but I also was no longer in my twenties; an era which still seemed to mark me as being young. Turning thirty meant I was well and truly an adult. That meant I was old. That's how I felt then anyway.

Nowadays I wouldn't mind being thirty again, at least for a little while, as long as I have all my sixty-six years of accumulated wisdom (supposedly) and experience and financial stability. Not that I really think about it. I am happy to wake up every morning, realising I am in reasonable health and I have another day of life to live and enjoy.

Tonight we went to a thirtieth birthday party. The married daughter of good friends. She has a gorgeous husband, a lovely house they are paying off, a secure job and all those years ahead of them.

It was an enjoyable party which I spent mostly with other guests of my generation watching those 'youngsters' full of energy and verve (and who knows what substances).

Why on earth was I a reluctant thirty-something all those years ago?


  1. Gorgeous husband??? (as my wet finger encircles my nipples) It is quite wonderful to watch the energy of the young.

    1. We were like them once, Andrew