Singing The Birthday Blues

I’m not 40, I’m 39+1, thank you very much

- Wendy Pratt

By the time you read this, I will have stepped nimbly out of my thirties and shrugged on the big 4-0. I am actually writing this to a future audience (how are the flying cars and freeze-dried space meals going, by the way?) from the bleakness of mid-winter, hoping there are signs of spring where you are, in future-fortieth-birthday land, when March actually arrives.

The start of spring is one of my favourite times of year, watching for the plastic-hard buds on the trees to start opening and waiting for the papery leaves to start to emerge.

This year, it will be from the vantage point of another age bracket. In many ways, I am exactly where I want to be in my life: I recently launched another collection of poetry with the wonderful Scarborough-based publishing company Valley Press; I live in a sleepy little village 10 minutes from the sea and I have nearly come to the end of my higher education journey having passed the half way point of my PhD.