It is quarter to two in the morning of my (and Kym’s) birthday, and we are just turning in for a couple of hours before the alarm drags us up again at four. Kym’s party is about 12 hours away! There is still work to finish, decorations to put up, and Maryam must be woken, fed, and sent to her school bus before we dive back into the chaos of preparation.
Earlier tonight, after all the pranking and running around, Misbahji and Maryam were hungry, so I made them Maggi dressed up as ramen, with gochujang for heat, soft-boiled eggs for comfort, and coriander because no Indian meal feels complete without it. I poured myself a small whiskey for company, for if instant noodles can pretend to be ramen, then surely a man turning fifty-three can pretend he is still twenty-five.
Later, I asked Alexa to play The Police, expecting Every Breath You Take. Instead, it gave me Walking on the Moon. The lyrics seem absurd at first, giant steps, houses, moons, until it dawns that they are about the strange lightness of living unburdened. And that struck home. Three years ago, at fifty, I shed the baggage I had carried for decades. Since then, each year has felt lighter, each step a little freer.
So here we are at two in the morning, bowls emptied, glass drained, song still playing softly, love all around, and only two hours of sleep before tomorrow begins in earnest. And as I step into my fifty-fourth year, I realise that growing older has not weighed me down at all. On the contrary, I am still, quite happily, walking on the moon.
