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So I turned 50 about an hour ago, as I write these words. I remember being told once that the actual time I popped into the world was quarter past five in the afternoon, so ever since I’ve taken that as the “official” time I turn whatever my new age is on my birthday. This dating is probably somewhat confused by the amount of international travel I did in my younger years and the numerous different time zones and dateline tomfoolery that involved, but never mind. Let’s just stick to that date and time.

So… 50. Feels much like 49 did so far HA! and, as usual, I feel perplexed by my ongoing existence. As I said the last time this birthday thing happened, I always feel slightly confused by the spectacle of me having survived another year. I am more so than usual today, though, cos I have to change the digit at the start of my age from 4 to 5… it’s not just another year I’ve finished, it’s a whole decade this time.

And I can never escape the question of what any of it has been for. The amount of actual achievements I have to my credit is, frankly, negligible, and I often find myself thinking about the number of people that I’ve outlived who have, you know, DONE things. There’s a remarkable number of people that haven’t made it as far as me and yet still had interesting lives in which they did interesting things that lived on after them, that were useful to other people. I… haven’t really done that. The things I have done have been… pretty much nothing. I don’t really know what if any purpose I serve, except perhaps as some sort of cautionary tale… Existential angst is FUN, eh kids, and it’s only 9pm as I write these words. Not even midnight, when this sort of thinking really hits hards…

I’m not doing anything to mark the occasion. I had a club night to go to for my 40th but there’s nothing comparable happening tonight… there’s such a limited range of events I’m interested in checking out, and frankly it’s hardly worth the effort, physical or mental. Frankly I thought I’d pull through the pandemic period OK cos it wasn’t like I was going many places anyway—most of where I did go was to the shops every couple of days—unlike people who were out at work every day and so forth, staying home was harder on them than it was on me… and though I used to semi-joke about that being enough to stop me becoming a complete hermit, it really was. I’ve turned into that hermit I was always afraid of turning into, because there’s very little need for me to leave the house. If I don’t have to now, I generally don’t. And when I do, I don’t find myself enjoying myself much, cos it cost me mental effort to find the will to go out quite apart from the physical demands involved.

So, 50’s just another day, isn’t it, nothing much to be said for it. Still, much as I puzzle over my persistent existence and whether or not there’ll ever be a point to it, I think I’d rather be here as not, I don’t really find the alternative much of an option. Got too many books to read and too many films to watch, if nothing else, and it’d be nice to check out that Magritte exhibit at the AGNSW. So you’re probably stuck with me until I’m not surprised to have made another birthday, which will be because I didn’t make it that far… in the meantime, here’s me at 50, looking not too bad for my advanced years…