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.
Hurt and loneliness are weights. They are heavy to lift, they make living difficult. Yet they make you stronger too, if you can survive them.
I read once that man could survive temperatures as high as 60 degrees with ease, though I'm sure this must involve comfortable trousers of some kind.
We don't tend to care if a shooting star loses in a scuffle, but when someone who has worked, has toiled a hard road to get to that point loses, we shed bloody tears with them.
We are exposed, vulnerable when eating, all carefully built affectations lost to the dribble of sauce, the splatter of noodle and the wiping of stains from a once crisp and clean veneer.
There is something incredibly calming about the thought of rising five minutes before you go to sleep to sweep twigs from a pebble.