On Wednesday the 27th of March, I hit the big four zero.
Only a week before, I’d driven home through Headingley, closeted in my refined Germanic bubble of leather and walnut veneer. With misty eyes I smiled at the fancy dress wearing students, heading out for a night of Jägerbomb and M-Cat fuelled thrusting and merriment. Bless them. I was young too. Once.
Twenty years, gone in a flash. My ponytail, Danny Rampling tape, and king sized Rizla replaced by a Whangee umbrella, Borsalino fedora and Mulberry briefcase.