Or not as the case may be.
I know that might sound a bit cryptic but let me explain.
Last year on my birthday I convinced myself, probably because I'm rubbish at maths and my memory often plays tricks on me, that I was 48. But I wasn't, I was only 47. Throughout the previous year, I've been unable to shake off my mistake and have constantly fooled myself into thinking that I was actually a year older than I was.
So on Sunday, my birthday, although I was officially a year older, I was still only 48. Good trick heh?
I can't say that I'm particularly bothered about my age, although I've noticed aches and pains creeping in, but the one thing that baffles me is where did the time go?
In my head I'm still young, ambitious with my whole life ahead of me. But when I see my teenage decade described as social history, it does send me into a bit of a panic. I love watching TV programmes such as the Back In Time programmes where families live in the conditions of previous decades and I'm horrified to see what I thought of then as state of the art technology, is now viewed as old, clunky and obsolete. (I'm hoping here that I haven't gone down the same route).
I still have so much more that I want to achieve, particularly in my writing ambitions, so I suppose I had better just get my skates on, and attach those fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper.
However, despite my maudlin, Sunday was a lovely day. Had a long lie in reading a book, was surrounded by my lovely boys (well they were trying their hardest) and the sun was shining. In the evening I had several glasses of wine with friends in my local country pub. What's not to like?