I turned 49 this week. Lucky me: I’ve now lived longer than the likes of Hawley Harvey Crippen, Al Capone, Joseph McCarthy, and Charles I.
I won’t deny, it’s not a good time. After a positive start to the year, everything has turned to dust. My weight has ballooned again. My writing has shrivelled and died. All the things I can to Karratha to achieve have faded and become ash. I’m sunk in misery, and it’s no real secret as to the reasons behind it– firstly, the death of my father, and the realisation of just how little it meant to me; and then, of course, the loss of our son Blake to suicide. Against such things, and the grief under which our family is struggling, it’s hard to find any positives in the world.
They exist, of course, in the lives that our other children are living, and the plans we see them making and carrying out. And I’ll talk more about those elements of our life more in my yearly round-up.
For now, I take pleasure in the gifts I have received from my loving family, and simply hope that my 50th journey around the sun brings better experiences than my 49th. It surely couldn’t bring worse.