I have a long-standing and happy marriage, two children, one 4-year-old judo fanatic who can throw a good Zornhau (fellow martial artists will understand the significance of this), and 4-month year old who is just learning to sit (fellow parents understand the significance of this). I also have healthy nephews, a happily married sibling, and two live parents with whom to celebrate my birthday.

 

I have a job which is part-time, for which I do not have to leave the house, and that does not involve working in an interpersonally toxic environment with [EXPLETIVES DELETED].

 

I have a snow-flake of friends, rather than a circle, but that's the price of parenthood. And among those various branches and whorls of crystallised social life I can count some of the most articulate and well-read people I have ever known. In some ways, my life resembles an endless SF convention, but with a layer of children not so much as underfoot as acting as a Fountain of Youth... oh and with more cold steel.

 

The cold steel? Well like a good marriage, it grows more exquisite and satisfying as the years roll by. The German Longsword Study group seems to be mining its way back into the past. Twice a week I get a refreshing blast of Medieval air, laden with the scent of Germanic forests and the prospect of roasted boar.

 

Then there's the novel. It's so almost-done that, since I did not bring with me a printout for marking up, there was nothing I could do to it this weekend. I'm in the lead up to that moment when you open the box and find out whether it contains a putrid feline corpse, or an angry cat. Terrifying yes, but in a "you bought the ticket to this rollercoaster so you'd better enjoy it" way.

 

But.

 

Well, the thing about dancing with the Muse of History is that you tend to be well aware that everything and everybody has its start and end date. This is great for coping with mortality around you, but at the same time makes you well aware that the Grim Reaper waits in ambush at the foot of the hill, ready to pencil in your terminal date.

 

I look at our son playing with the Lego I played with at his age - did I say that we're at my folks? - and realise that he 1/10^th of my age, and that when he's 40, I shall be 80, and that generationally, I shall stand naked underneath an open sky.

 

And, well there's the writing. Suppose I sell "Ironclad", how many more novels have I got in me? Enough to fill a shelf, perhaps, but I'm already behind my heroes and role models.