The terminally ill chemistry teacher turned flinty-eyed, murderous drug lord kicked off his 52nd alone in a diner, fashioning his age out of bits of crispy bacon on his plate and sealing the deal with a man in a toilet for a machine gun so powerful it’s usually seen mounted on helicopters in Vietnam movies. Stay classy, Walt.
Our grown-up daughters away at uni sent reassuringly insulting cards, bought a retina-burning Superdry hoodie so vibrantly bright orange a Scottish person could get sunburn from it and FaceTimed without needing to be reminded – well, not by me anyway.
The boss splashed out on a night away at a spa hotel and after a dip in the outdoor pool and a lovely dinner, we slept for nine hours straight with no yeowling cat to wake us, twice – once to be let out and then again an hour later to be let back in again.
We also went to see a smashing Fleetwood Mac tribute band at The Grand, where it made a pleasant change to be one of the youngest in the crowd as opposed to being at least 15 years older than everyone else in the room like at the last gig we went to together - Anderson .Paak at Manchester’s O2 Victoria Warehouse in March 2019. Even the dog had a great time at the dogsitter’s who took the greatest picture I’ve ever seen of our sighthound Walter mid-flight as he bounded over a pool at the beach at full stretch with all the grace of an Olympic triple jumper.
It’s really something, you can even see his reflection in the water below. If you had to give it a caption it would read, “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
I reckon 52 is an age where you’ve earned the right to feel confident enough to stop lying about your age. People might say, “You look good… for 52”, which isn’t the backhanded compliment some of you young ‘uns might imagine.
Being invisible is a blessing, if that’s possible when you’re 6ft 3ins (last time you checked) and cut about wearing a dayglow orange hoodie that can be seen from space.