A twentieth of a millennium. Half a century. Fifty years old is a significant milestone.
Only half a lifetime ago I was scared of dogs, wasn’t interested in classical music, or God. And I had hair on my head. I now have my very own Dalmatian, run my own successful dog-walking company, play the cello and have found a fantastic church. But I’ve lost most of my hair getting to this point.
I thought I’d be dropping down a gear or two moving back in with my parents. But not a bit of it. Keeping up with a couple of septuagenarians is quite a feat I can tell you.
Interesting though, that I’ve arrived back in the very room I had before leaving home. There’s barely space enough to swing a bow let alone a cat. Fortunately I only have a bow. But it is the ideal place to confront those skeletons in the cupboard and lay their ghosts down to rest once and for all.
And when all’s said and done there are worse achievements to celebrate after five decades.