I turned 43 last weekend. It seems important somehow. It has seemed to be a coming of age in the way that no other time, not 18 or 21 or 30 or even 40 has ever been.

Perhaps it’s just that things are simple at the moment. Straightforward.

I suspect parenting is never so simple as when children are 9 and 11. Young enough that there is joy in their childishness (Mum, are you wearing eyelash polish), old enough that there is joy in the adults they are about to be (Mum, shall I make us some scrambled eggs, you seem very tired). I’m sure that helps to make life simple.

I’m still a fish out of water as far as my immediate surroundings are concerned, and there are clouds of unfulfilled dreams, but day to day, I know where I am going and I know what to expect.

It must be ten years since I felt this way and if I felt it before that, I did not know that certainty was a gift. I confused certainty with bordem and I did what I could to put surprises between myself and future days.

I don’t do that any more, and I think that is what I will most enjoy about being 43.