Fifty

On the 12th of March this year (2007) I attain the age of fifty. This means I have lived for five decades. Fifty rotations of the Earth around the sun. Two hundred seasons. Fifty Springs, Summers, Autumns and Winters. Six hundred calendar months. Two thousand, six hundred weeks. More depressingly; two thousand, six hundred Monday mornings. Over Eighteen thousand rotations of the planet. Wow.

A lot has happened in that time; space travel, digital technology, the Internet. A lot of bad stuff has happened as well; Wars, Famines, plagues; but the good news is that humanity is still going strong. People still think it’s worth the effort and time to raise a family (Although for others, children are the unforeseen consequence of unprotected sex). Trees are still growing; the tide still comes in twice a day. The world is not dying; it’s thriving. Despite all the doomsayers and apocalypse addicts. Life adapts, it is a wonderful thing.

My downside is that writing success has so far eluded me, but I console myself it’s only a matter of time before the break happens and I make the transition from dilettante to professional. I’m still breathing and reasonably healthy; which is better than many of my contemporaries.

Of course I hate my day job; but doesn’t every writer? It’s just a means to an end even if my employers want me to treat it as the whole reason for my existence. Employers for me are simply a temporary resource; a meal ticket for which I have to pay the penance of hard graft and occasional physical discomfort. It’s also occasionally a source of humiliation, but again; it won’t be for much longer. I’ll either quit and go contracting for the last few months, or swallow my pride and carry on until July, when we pack up and try to make a new life overseas.

My raison d’etre sits in the next room and has intimated that she is going to treat me to ‘something very nice’ for my fiftieth birthday. Bless all of her tiny toes. I do so love that woman. Sometimes I wonder why she loves me, but she seems to.