Sunday, April 10, 2016
Time's Winged Chariot
So, as we were waiting for the opening procession, a friend of mine at St Barts this morning told me that the 50th birthday (I had confessed to him that mine is a week off) was the hardest one for him. "Sixty's nothing," he assured me with a laugh, "and seventy's rather nice. The Psalmist's span, you've beaten it."
"No," he resumed, "Fifty's the bitch. Just old enough to feel your mortality, with none of the up sides. But in a week and a half--you'll feel all the pressure's off you."
I was comforted.
One of the acolytes, also a good friend, caught a snatch of the conversation.
"You're going to be 50?" she asked, clearly interested.
"Yes, that's right," I said.
"Oh, I thought you were much older than that," she replied.
If not actually disgruntled, I was far from being gruntled.