Tomorrow I turn 43. Ordinarily I’m not one to broadcast my birthday like this but on the eve of tearing the wrapping off the chic new polka dot blouse that will epitomise my 44th year, I felt some words on getting older were in order.
I’ve been in denial for some time but the truth is irrefutable. ProBlogger is done and dusted. That plush hotel room and big soft white bed all to myself, towering golden pyramids of pina colada macarons and cheerful Phil (sorry Hank) bringing me a perfectly made double shot cappuccino each morning is all but a distant rosy memory.
Welcome to the wee hours. That strange disembodied patch of time after the kids have gone to bed and the house is finally quiet, otherwise known as ‘your time’ – if you can keep your eyes open long enough and your hands off the wine.
To be fair, this used to be when I did my best work. 10pm was my magic hour. I was a card-carrying, candle-end burning night owl, meeting tight deadlines after heroic all-nighters and then backing it up the next day with nothing more than a shower and a double shot (sometimes espresso).