Signs that 35 may be closer to 40 than 30

1. Watching Deadwood and saying to your partner, "I mean, really, do they need to say 'c*cksucker' quite so much?"

2. Realising that people who were born in 1993 are now eligible to vote. Sero?

3. Automatically picking up the locally produced, gluten and antibiotic-free, certified free range eggs with no added hormones at the supermarket.

4. Deciding amongst your pals whose house to hold the regular poker game at based on who has the most and/or youngest kids.

5. Enjoying a track called 'Blue-winged Kookaburras' on an album called Kakadu: A Celebration of the Wetlands.

6. Eating exactly eight almonds a day because your nutritionist told you to.

What. The. Fuck.

Then again, a darling twenty-something pal of mine who is a fully sick rock band drummer has just started knitting granny squares so hey, maybe 20 is the new 40.

Series, seriously

Do you ever have those moments when you realise you've changed but you can't remember the change actually occurring?

Example: I used to giggle like an idiot whenever I heard mention of the delightful but hilariously named North American titmouse; now I find I am able to speak sedately (sometimes indeed morosely) about the respectful and respected Parus inornatus. When did such a fundamental change take place? I don't know; what I do know is that I used to be young and silly and now I am, well, old.

As I may have mentioned (or possibly droned on about), I turned 35 last week. On this otherwise happy occasion, a dear friend sadistically informed me that 35 is in fact the opening bracket of middle-aged. And so I find myself, newly early-middle-aged, suddenly aware that another change has taken place.

And that change is thus:

I used to hate series of books (same as the army: you're stuck against your will until the bitter, bitter end) but last night, settling down to read Peter Carey's Jack Maggs, I caught myself thinking "Deary me, I'm really not sure I'm up to meeting a whole new cast of characters; can't they all just stay the same as my last book? I mean, really?"

Then it struck me: if I was reading a series I wouldn't have to get to know anyone new! It would all be the same as the last book, with just a few details changed here and there.

'Marvelous!' I thought, in my newly minted, closed minded, middle-agedness, 'Never need I trouble the waters of my stagnating mind again!'

I quickly abandoned Jack Maggs and retired to the couch to dream about my ideal banana chair, safe in the knowledge that the last bit of actual thinking I ever need do is find the longest possible series I can. Bliss.

One of the world's greatest banana chairs, which is coincidentally and marvellously, currently available on ebay. I just wish I lived in Narre Warren and could pick it up.