Deep Thought

In a few weeks time, I will be forty-two. By my reckoning, that's about 50% of the way through my life expectancy if I'm lucky.  I'll be exactly half my grandmother's age and probably almost twice her height. Scientifically, using tabloid newspaper statistical methods, that means by the time I die I'll be huge.

Elvis died at 42.  Maybe, if he'd lived, the King would be still be cool at seventy five this year, or maybe he'd be turning out embarassing elevator muzak, but sadly we'll never know.

As all Douglas Adams aficionados know, "42" is also the answer - after 7.5 million years of calculation by a specially built supercomputer - to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything.  So I'm hoping for big things in the next twelve months. 

Unfortunately, as in the book, the Ultimate Question itself remains frustratingly unknown for most people.  Maybe this is why many men have a mid-life crisis at around my age. But a Porsche 911 doesn't fit my new (and largely bogus) green image and the current Mrs Davison has also put her foot down firmly and pre-emptively on the notion of a trophy wife.

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