I felt sad to let go of being 42 as, at the very least, I felt important thanks to Douglas Adams and his meaning of life.
We, my family and I are standing on the threshold of something we can’t rightly fathom. It is bracing. There is colour in our cheeks. We are waiting to begin.
It is like being a parent to Wile E. Coyote. I don’t watch Looney Tunes cartoons anymore; I live them.
If what I attempted was not the highest of art, then folk would see through the cracks and realise what a complete piece of shit I was. That I was a faker. That I was actually hollow of purpose, worth and talent.
While writing is usually considered a wise and earthly pursuit, it actually revolves around sitting in your underpants while typing and spurning life completely.
The act of helping others is one of the few actions which can truly sum up the worth of a person. I mean, what else is there to do with your life?
All this does not mean that I intend to become a beret and skivvy wearing wanker who sits in the corner of dank coffee shops writing about the inequities of the world.
The shock of entering your forties has been and gone and the horror of entering your fifties is far enough away as to be attributable to someone else.