Welcome to the second half.

By Monday evening I was 40.  My nearly-godfather (he would have been officially appointed had mum ever got around to having us christened) left a message.  'I remember your birth.  Dear God!  I had black hair!'  His hair is white now but lots of it still.  And his partner of 50 years (also my nearly-godfather) is drifting into dementia taking all their shared days with him.  I have low stock left from that generation.  It was good to hear his voice.

Friends, with gloomy camaraderie on Facebook, sent greetings like people who have managed to haul another soul into the lifeboat.  Or asked if I've written my will.

'Welcome to the second half' wrote one of my favourite people.  I have often avoided the second half and gone to the pub.  During this show they let you bring your drink in with you and the plot's not bad.  I've got good seats.  If it's close to last orders I can always say I need the loo and sneak out early.

As I suspected 40 feels remarkably like 39.  I celebrated the change of decade with the man I want to be with when I enter the next one.  We avoided subjects that have proved touchy in the past, like whether we once had a beer with Satan and the existence of flamenco, and had an excellent evening at the Wiveton Bell.  Nice Chablis.  Lovely cheese.

Presents from the children were a small parcel of 5 pebbles from my son, a handful of glossy hazelnuts and a linen box for precious things from my daughter and rowdy singing from my little one.  And Mr P and the children gave me a poppy red Pashley bike with a springy seat.  It is the bike of my dreams.  On the front is a basket big enough for a child to ride in.  Or I could put a dog in there.  Or some cockles and samphire and a bottle of cider.  It got dented on the way but some new bits are being sent and I sense a summer of adventures on the open road.  A merry song, small smooth treasures and the promise of a journey.  A good birthday.