Halfway to Seventy

"Thirty-five is when you finally get your head together, and your body starts falling apart." Caryn Leschen

It's my 35th birthday today. The quote above sums up the way I feel about it perfectly.

I haven't been able to play sport for two months because a minor but niggling ankle injury resolutely refuses to heal. Linvoy Primus reached the same milestone as me three weeks ago, and not surprisingly he's always injured. Hangovers meanwhile now roll into the second morning after the night before.

More promisingly though it has occurred to me I can now bed women half my age without breaking any applicable laws, and they can drive me home afterwards. Strangely I'm not inundated with offers.

Appropriately the second most famous Briton to leave these shores to move to New York (John Lennon), was also born on 9th October. Given the credit crisis is in full swing, I wish I could 'imagine no repossessions' , but I can't.

So half way to 70 then, if I get there. Although I'm eating a fresh fruit salad as I write this, it's not something I take for granted. It would be nice to know either way though, as it would certainly make retirement planning easier.

I'm spending this birthday in London, back on a short business trip that frustratingly doesn't coincide with any Charlton games. Four days after I was born, Charlton inevitably lost 4-0 at Walsall, thus beginning a love affair that's proving harder to shake off than my hangovers. It was in the old Third Division as well, which puts our current position in some perspective.

Alan Pardew is the eleventh Charlton manager that I've experienced, and the third called 'Alan'. Surprisingly he's also the 39th longest-serving manager in the League right now. And to think those calling for his head are labelled 'fickle'.