Keith Hann column

Feb 9 2005 By Keith Hann, The Journal

They say that life begins at 40. Mine didn't. In fact that birthday marked the start of a decade of spectacular non-achievement.

I spent 10 years commuting between London and Northumberland, being regarded at both ends with the suspicion and resentment that the English reserve for outsiders.

Although my parents had kindly arranged for my Geordie accent to be beaten out of me, trace elements remained that were sufficient to attract periodic ridicule in the City.

What Geordies used to say about the way I spoke cannot be repeated.

I was appointed managing director of a moderately successful financial PR firm, on the sound old principle of Buggins' turn, and managed to make that success even more moderate by applying a management style that combined wheedling flattery, towering rages, sexual harassment and a total absence of inspiring leadership.

Personally, I broke off one unsuitable engagement and promptly entered another. This collapsed in circumstances that would have fatally wounded my self-esteem, if I had had any left. The only real gains of the decade were grey hair, an extra two stones, wrinkles and gallstones.

Exactly a year ago, with my 50th birthday looming, I decided that life-changing action was required.

So, after consulting my bank statement - but not my bank manager - I walked out of the office, never to return.

For a year now I have been scraping a much reduced living working for a few loyal clients, taking long walks in Northumberland, writing unread columns and planning that Big Novel.

In November, at an aunt's 80th birthday party, I met and fell madly in love with a beautiful and very entertaining young woman, who last week agreed to become my wife.

My doctor tells me that the strange, tingling sensation I keep experiencing is called `happiness'.

True, we've got virtually no income and absolutely no prospects, but we console ourselves with the mawkish thought that at least we've got each other.

If you are approaching this personal milestone, you will know that reaching 50 is considerably more traumatic than turning 40, as you can no longer console yourself with the thought that you still have half a lifetime left.

But resist the temptation to punch the next person who slaps you cheerily on the back and tells you that life begins at 50. I can tell you that they might well be right.