She thinks 50 sounds unimaginably old. Trouble is, so do I!

50 years old minus 17 days and counting. Never had a problem with big number birthdays before. In the past I've always managed to sniff at the crassness of this arbitrary numerical human construct. Or simply just not given a damn, depending on my need for fewer syllables.

Not this time though. ‘Tis wrecking my head in a minor way.

Seeking consolation and the wisdom of experience, I emailed my friend Jon, who passed 50 last year, asking how it was for him.

Jon offered the following cheery observation:

“I think 50 is a bit tricky because if you have my miserabilist tendencies it’s easy to reflect that you haven’t got that much to show for the preceding years ... and yet the future must hold less rather than more than what’s gone before.”

Thanks mate. Self pity has never been my style, so refusing to drown in a sea of melancholy alone at home, I head into town, where I start chatting to a young American backpacker lass sitting outside The Quays.

She offers consolation as only a young person can:

“50? Wow! Like like wow wow wow! I just can’t imagine what it’s like to be that old. What’s it feel like? Hey, you know, you should really tweet about it.”

I bite my tongue which is dying to point out that my making a half century is hardly a newsworthy event. Several others on this planet have turned 50 too; just none that this lass had ever spoken to.

“What’s it like?” she persists.

Well, nearing 50 means I know what twitter means, but I don’t feel any desire whatsoever to tweet. My 'social networking' consists these days of such radical notions as talking to living breathing people who are standing in front of me, as well as talking on the phone, which is my Jewish imperative.

Oh, and texting, of course.

Aha! Yes! Of course! I have an answer for her.

“What’s it like nearing 50? Well, it’s like when you’ve been using predictive text on your mobile phone for 5 years and only just discovered last week that when you put a full stop into it.s or their.s or somebody.s name, you don’t actually need to press and twiddle the changy letter button round until it becomes an apostrophe.

"Nearing 50 is feeling quietly happy and smug that you’ve finally discovered that it changes to an apostrophe all on its own, and yes, of course YOU all knew that years ago, but I didn’t."

She has heard enough of my nonsensical ramblings and moves on to talk to a rugged yoof wearing a Palestinian scarf, evidently this year's 'Must Have' fashion item.

Nearing 50 is feeling silently proud that you’ve finally caught up with 10 year-old technology. But equally, nearing 50 means that such tiny quiet discoveries turn into minor victories, to be sniggered at by one’s self at home, when nobody’s looking.

"Enjoy your feelings of immortality" I yell after her, as I swing my aching old leg over the chair and hobble homewards. Nearing 50 is being happy to settle for staying vaguely in touch, rather than seeking the cutting edge.

In the 1970’s I ripped the heart out of my teenage years, taking every illicit substance London had to offer, while seeing every hot band play live before they’d even scored a mention in the NME. I travelled around the world in my 20’s and then went around it again in my 30’s, finally finding my home in my 40’s.

I didn’t waste a single day.

Now my knee hurts.