Birthday. Age: 50 (HOW).

Biscuits consumed: celebratory.

Emotional stability: holding, just.

Woke up this morning officially fifty. FIFTY. Half a century. A solid, respectable age at which one should, theoretically, own matching towels (I do, actually) and understand how pensions work (I have a vague knowledge). Instead, found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing pyjamas with a suspicious toast‑crumb situation, wondering whether this is the year I finally become a person who moisturises their elbows.

Beloved bursts in with a tray of breakfast — tea, toast, and something that was meant to be a poached egg but looked more like a philosophical question. Still, points for enthusiasm. Beloved sang “Happy Birthday” in a key that has never existed in Western music. Felt loved. Also slightly deaf.

Turning 50 is a very specific experience. One part gratitude, one part “why is there a balloon tied to the cat,” and one part “please stop telling me 50 is the new 30, I’m tired and my knees click like castanets.”

Spent the morning opening cards. Half of them say things like “Fabulous at 50!” which is sweet, except I’m fairly sure the glitter will be in the carpet until I’m 90. The other half contain jokes about ageing that I’m choosing not to take personally.

Lunch will involve cake. Afternoon no doubt more cake. Dinner will almost certainly involve cake.

Now sitting on the sofa, typing this, while beloved fusses around trying to light candles without setting off the smoke alarm. Feeling… good. Older, yes. Wiser, debatable. But happy. Loved. And weirdly excited for whatever nonsense the next decade brings.

If this is 50, I’ll take it.