This isn’t how I was going to launch this blog. I’d planned to have it up and running at the beginning of October, but lack of time and, I will admit, discipline on my part made it impossible. But I was still determined to launch before the end of October. And I do so now. But not with the article I originally planned; that will come later. No, this article is inspired by an experience I had just a few days ago.

I have turned 50. Half a century. Past middle aged if you run the numbers, though I’d rather not. Now, age is just a number, bla, bla, bla. One year older, bla bla bla. But it marks a moment. At least for my Dad whose youngest daughter has reached the limits of full blown pre-elderliness. I prefer to think of it as finally joining the club my siblings are in.

I had no plans for the big day, not because I wanted to ignore it, just because, well, I had no plans. But a flood (in the good sense, not that of climate change) of messages and calls and visits throughout the day, from 8 in the morning right through to midnight, from family on the other side of the world to friends in my home town in Spain, brought it home, once and for all, how incredibly lucky I am, and what a fortunate life I have.

Friends and family who are older than me sharing their experiences of ageing with hilarity. Perfect gifts from loved ones who, it turns out, know me better than I imagined. And so I think, for all the things I do wrong, I must’ve done something right to have all these amazing people in my life. I don’t know if I deserve them or not but by jiminy I love them.

So what’s it like to have entered that realm? Let’s start with the physical. Mystery joint pain. Not having long enough arms to hold your phone far enough away to be able to read a message. Grey hairs (though that one I’ve embraced, not so much a silver fox, as a silver vixen). Neck scraggy at the front, humpy at the back. Ever more flaccid/drooping everything. Looking in the mirror first thing in the morning and noticing that your face has become some kind of Picasso-esque plasticine model which you have to remould into its original contours. Changing shape. (That’s a weird and very frustrating one. How do your proportions suddenly change?!)

And then there are the mental symptoms. Going upstairs and forgetting why you went there. Becoming increasingly OCD and having to check you’ve locked the door three times. Paranoia. But I won’t go into that one. Lots of talk about visits to the doctor. Wondering if you can find a way to retire early. Planning what to do with your imaginary lottery winnings. Diminishing interest in partying; it’s just too exhausting. Pretending you’re awake when you’ve unintentionally fallen asleep.

The list goes on.

But it’s not all bad. In fact, I’d say it’s pretty damn good. I know who I am, which is no mean feat. I have wonderful friends and family. I am privileged in where I live and the life that I am free to live.

I only wish I could have heard my Mum’s voice, her singing to me over the phone as she always did, and been able to share the day with her and thank her for these 50 years. She can probably hear me actually, like when I’d get home late and try not to wake her going up to bed. At the last moment as I opened my door, I’d hear a “Night, night” and suspected that in actual fact she never slept. So I’d best not get sentimental.

50? It’s different for everyone. For me, I finally, truly appreciate what I have and am thankful for what I do not.

I’ve crossed the Rubicon and there’s no going back. And you know what? Even if I could, I’d choose to be right here, right now. Why go back when there’s so much more to discover? Be that suffering or joy. At least it’ll be new. And who knows, maybe even better.

And with that, a 50-year-old amateur part-time hobbyist blogger is born.