Today is my birthday. It's not one of those landmark numbers which seem to sit in the collective pysche like gift-wrapped elephants-in-the-room. It's just 44, which is not so far down the forties to hint at 50, nor so far away from 40 to threaten the need to stop listening to the Clash or looking at members of the opposite sex. But still, it is a good age to reflect on some things. I am currently waiting for a response from Lancaster University's tardy admissions team about my PhD application, and that does seem like a very grown-up project. And the other day, during an experiential learning exercise in the Starter Workshop for a couple of new MBA intakes, I realised that I have now attained a level of experience and comfort with what I do at work that allows me to have fun with the process and operate at more than one level with a group.
However, it was also at the weekend that a Saturday shop assistant in Boots asked me, quite solemnly as part of a loyalty card upgrade prompted by the computer in front of her, whether I was under 60. She really wasn't sure.