Well, today is something of a milestone for me. It’s been hanging on my mind for months now and now it’s here. Today is my last day as a 39-year-old. Tomorrow I turn 40.

I’ve gone through a wide range of emotions about this event, ranging from vague depression to petulant defiance. After all, it isn’t like my warranty is about to expire and things will start to fall off. I’m not Binkley’s dad from Bloom County, whose nose fell off when he hit the big four-zero.

Then I stopped and did some thinking. I felt the same way when I hit 30 and back then my life sucked. My friends had all moved away (Andrew and Allison had moved to the other side of London as the commute to Gatwick Airport every day was killing her, John and Emma had got jobs in Dubai and even the gifted but daft Paul was working in Kuwait) and I was living with my parents. My romantic life was unromantic.

As a result I spent my 30^th birthday sitting on my own in a pub feeling depressed. The barmaids took pity on me and gave me a birthday kiss each, which was nice, but also a bit sad.

Tomorrow I’ll be waking up in my house, with my wife next to me and probably at least one cat on our bed. I’ll get dressed and my wallet will contain a picture of our grandkids. When I come back from work (and my salary is almost twice what it was when I was 30) Kathleen and I will go out and have a romantic dinner in a superb Vietnamese place that we discovered.

My life has totally changed. For one thing it’s 100% better thanks to this odd thing called happiness...