Eighty

On what I think was her third or fourth birthday, Charlie woke me up to say that she'd checked in the mirror and she didn't look any older. Such was her respect for the transformative power of birthdays. Of course, the only real and not inconsiderable magic they have is to define us by adding another year onto our age. 

I'm not sure that ever bothered me, really. Not unlike Charlie, I would hit each milestone expecting something to change but it never did, at least not until I was fifty. Fifty was weird. I didn't feel like I should be fifty. When I read a newspaper story and I'm told one of the protagonists is a man in his fifties, I always imagine someone older than me.

And I know my dad feels the same way; we've had the conversation before. Today, though, he's eighty, which really is a big number. I managed to arrange for all my kids - except Izzy, who's in Jordan - to be there for a birthday lunch at the Union Jack Club in London, of which my dad is a member on account of his national service in the RAF.

I wondered if the big number might have subdued him but he was as cheerful as usual, enjoying lunch with my mum, my brother and his family, and nearly all his grandchildren plus me and the Minx. Speaking of the Minx, she had organised a cake (see extras) and we all ate and drank so much that it was a relief to walk along the Southbank afterwards!

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Reading: Bill Drummond's 'How To Be An Artist'.