At the moment I’m working with two 22 year-olds, both of whom are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, intelligent, confident, opinionated, clever and ambitious. They have ideas and dreams and theories and sometimes, sometimes, take themselves a little bit too seriously.

They’ve replaced a cynical 67 year-old (who fled to the Gold Coast with her long-lost high school sweetheart) and a funny, melancholy 56 year old (who fled to another job, for the same reason I’m leaving). One is divorced; the other a widow. They’ve had experiences and losses and hardships and had self-deprecating humour down to the finest art.

At 39, I’m half between these four women. I see what I was and what I could become. I can take myself a little bit too seriously and I can take the piss out of myself. I’ve had hardships but I still have dreams. I am confident, but through experience.

Ya know, I am starting to think that it’s not such a bad thing to be 39 years-old.

But when are you ever the perfect age?