40 is the new 30

IMG_1971When I turned 30, I didn’t feel a thing. I’m not being smug, I just didn’t.

I was very fortunate to be at a place in my life that felt right, exciting and new. I’d been in Australia for almost a year, I had a new boyfriend, a new four-year working visa and a lovely group of friends. We went out for a curry and drinks on Oxford Street in Darlinghurst, Sydney. I didn’t want to be anywhere else and had no doubt I was exactly where I should be. I didn’t know then that ahead of me lay almost more fun than I could bear, heartbreak, hilarity and a host of brilliant people I am so glad I met. Shit, that was smug. Even I can see it now.

A broken foot, a broken heart and a broken credit rating meant that by the time I hit my 34th birthday I was back in the UK, looking for something…else. The next six years brought me to now, the eve of my 40th birthday.  Spent not in a curry house or a city bar, but in my parents’ back garden, watching my two-year-old lay a gigantic man-size turd on Grandad’s lawn. I laughed a lot on my 30th birthday. I laughed a lot today.

I am in the right place and feel very fortunate to be so. BUB.1 starts school in September, while BUB.2 starts pre-school. Best of all, BUB.3 is expecting to make an appearance in January. We’ve got a new (old) house to resurrect. I am excited for the coming years and feel on the brink of something, rather than at the close of something.

I feel almost exactly the same as I did ten years ago. Only much more sober, without a waist to speak of and slightly stiffer around the joints.

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