One of the scariest things about being 48 is realising it's thirty years since your 18th birthday. I kicked off my 18th birthday with a celebratory bowl of Coco Pops, then opened some presents which included a Thompson Twins cassette and a Venus fly trap. At school we did periglacial features in double geography, and in the afternoon they let me win three games of table tennis because it was my birthday and not because of any residual talent. My Dad allowed me to drive home from school, because it was my driving test the following day (third time lucky). Then in the evening my extended family came round for a roast turkey dinner and a huge lemon meringue pie, which is dessert perfection in my opinion, before giving me the bumps on the front lawn. They don't make birthdays like that any more.
One of the other scariest things about being 48 is realising that in thirty years time you'll quite likely be dead. So I'm not thinking about that. I'm seizing the day, and I'm going abroad. I'm giving myself a treat by heading somewhere foreign and wandering around for several hours, and then coming home with a smile. I wanted to nip in before next year when my passport photo has to look like me again. And apparently it might even be sunny where I'm going, so that's a win. Although it does mean being awake at stupid o'clock this morning, which sounded like a good idea when I booked the tickets, but I'm not so sure now. Still, you only get to be 48 once. Carpe birthdiem.