The other day I was having one of those existential crises that rears its ugly head from time to time – it was my 32nd birthday on the 28th of June, and my life at the minute consists primarily of mucking about and having a good time.  Society insinuates this millstone-like character on the age of 30 years… presumably it’s about having been 12 years since you were given the legal right & responsibility of doing grownup stuff and now being a point to scan your memoirs to see if you’ve actually commenced behaving like a grownup yet, but before a point where it’s too late to do anything about it.  You’re meant to have a career, a house, a station wagon and at least 1 of your 2.4 kids by now.  I’ve got a shelf full of single malt whisky, one hell of an impressive t-shirt collection and a shoebox full of concert ticket stubs.

The 30 milestone is much on the lips of my contemporaries at the minute – K’s 30th is this weekend, and my housemate James hit “the big 3-0” on Saturday just gone.  My younger brother is 30 in October, and my update list in Facebook is a seemingly endless toilet-roll of frettings from friends & colleagues from around the world taking stock of their lives as they head towards the Management Years.

James turned up home the other night with a couple of masks he’d bought from a stand out the front of the Mexican Wrestling event taking place up the road from us.

London professionals

Perhaps age isn’t worth obsessing over after all.