So Birthday No. 52 came and went yesterday, meaning I can no longer sort of pretend I’m not 50 yet. My wife reminded me that I am technically in my 53rd year on this planet, and I offered the kind of response that such a comment deserves, but there’s no getting around it — at this time next year I might start to think about what it will be like to be (shudder) sixty.

I had license to do pretty much what I wanted, as everyone should have on his birthday — but I chose to simply go out for a little lunch, then watch football all day and kick back a few Boddingtons (there’s something odd about watching NFL games while drinking the Cream of Manchester — a brew associated with a completely different brand of football — but I like it). As birthdays go, it was just fine.

Previously: You wouldn’t understand | Hokum home