Thursday 16th August 2012
62 IS a difficult age: neither here nor there; unremarkable, unheralded and having to wait another five before returning to one’s prime.
62: probably the dullest number invented by man: about as exciting as a blurred photograph of a member of the royal family, cavorting naked in a luxury hotel in Las Vegas.
62: the international dialling code for Indonesia and the atomic number of samarium, a rare earth metal with a boiling point of 1794 °C, making it the third most volatile lanthanide after ytterbium and europium.
Wikipedia also notes that both 62 BC and 62 AD were notable only for nothing noteworthy having happened.
62: sitting there, peering over your shoulder from its cobwebbed corner, like the alien in John Carpenter’s Dark Star, both mocking and menacing, even if only a beach-ball with claws.
This being the 500th entry in this journal, I should be celebrating. I had a wonderful birthday and enjoyed a few days away, being looked after and entertained by daughters and granddaughters.
Moreover, a friend’s hacksaw has finally released the lock round the bike in the shed. It’s now gone to a good home, making the space I need to start shifting some things into and others out of the attic, where I am intending to hibernate, starting next month.
The weather has been warmer for several days and I’m in my shorts – even if, as a friend pointed out today – they don’t look right with the cardigan.
The list of jobs on the notepad on my desk is down to a manageable five. It needs to get above eight before I admit to losing control.
All in all then, no reason to complain about anything: except my back.
I’ve twisted a muscle: maybe lifting a sturdy toddler; or hurrying up two steps at once on hearing the train pull in; or sleeping uncomfortably on the coach home. I should apply an ice-pack, but have lost the will to open the fridge.
I put it down to being 62. Time to enrol on a course at the University of the Third Age.
Though not just yet. I think I’ll take a gap year first.