I was born in 1964, the year mods clashed with rockers on British beaches, Beatlemania was in full flow, and the death penalty was abolished in the UK.
Fifty years later, my “milestone” birthday was a low key affair, reaching peak excitement with the ordering of an Indian take-away. The months leading up to it were, on a personal level, somewhat more eventful.
Twenty-five years after writing my first book, I finally published, not one, but three books in six months, each of which has appeared in Amazon’s bestseller charts. In a year abundant with new experiences, I set up my own website, joined a coastal rowing club, became the presenter of a radio show, and was checked out in the most thorough manner for ovarian cancer. The last thankfully negative.
I’ve heard people not much older than me say they feel sorry for young people today. I wholeheartedly disagree with that sentiment. I’ve never bought into the idea of the Good Old Days. The decade in which I was born only ever swung for a few and was miserable for many. There is still plenty wrong with the world today, but it’s all to easy to be cynical. Opportunities abound like never before, and not just for younger people.
Yes, the waistline has thickened, the hair is silvering and reading glasses are inevitable, but as my fiftieth birthday approached, I regarded it not, as I expected, with a sense of trepidation, but instead thinking that perhaps the best is yet to come.