News flash, this blog will not be able to rest on its ‘fifty-something’ laurels once the clock strikes midnight later and there is a more likelihood that I will awake tomorrow as an overripe pumpkin rather than as a fairy-tale princess.

I am not particularly bothered by the number – it is a privilege to get this opportunity after all – but it has made me overly reflective and I have found myself telling total strangers what my age is as if I expect them to counter-argue and knock some years off my calculation.

Feedback from my last blog was that I need to get over myself and stop whinging on about the cottage all the time (I had hoped for a gritty kitchen sink type blog genre to show other people in my situation that I am crawling along beside them, but apparently I achieved Victor Mildrew). At the boot camp Christmas dinner last night, at least two of my regular 20 readers said they would bin the blog if I did not up the humour quota. I should have cried into my beer, but I was so heavily dosed up on paracetamol on account of the lurg picked up trying to paint a damp cottage (stop it) that this feedback did not really hit home until this morning when I was trying to iron the wrinkles out of my face and find my birth certificate.

So perhaps the best way to start the next decade is with some resolutions that will not wait until January 1st:

• I will not mention the cottage until it has a water tight roof and I can actually move in.
• Re the above, I will acknowledge that I will be putting my moving date back for the third time, but I will not bore for England by telling everyone how low I feel about this.
• I will start having fun again and stop pretending that I need money to do this (see below)
• I will spend more time with my family and friends because these are the only chaps who really know how to get me belly laughing.
• I will try to live a life of which my sister would approve and I will bless her every day for being of the opinion that you should never take yourself too seriously.
• I will acknowledge that Zara is likely to still be in business by the time I am solvent again and that retail therapy is a shallow fix, not a life solution.

Anyway, I realised weeks ago that I would not be able to host a lavish ‘I am 60’ party and launch myself out of an iconic birthday cake, so instead I set up a birthday Whatsapp group and invited friends – over the course of the next 12 months – to introduce me to something that they already love doing but that I may not have yet experienced.

I have to say that this little chat group is already giving me so much joy, for only a couple of friends (you know who you are) have interpreted the invitation as a challenge to scare the living daylights out of me and get me to face some new fears, the rest have just embraced my curiosity. Out of interest, I have pushed back on the face your fears approach, arguing that the last 10 years have been scary enough; I have high hopes for indulgence and pleasure over the next decade.

On the back of this, yesterday saw me running a Park Run for the first time, with my two running pals. I enjoyed this – until the very end, when a very vociferous Park Runner laid into me for slowing down to collect my completer chip; she took me aside to tell me that it is poor course etiquette to do so. I may need to complete a second Park Run to figure out how you collect your finishing chip from one marshal at the same time as three other runners without slowing. Clearly Park Runs are much more competitive than marathon distance (did I mention that I have completed a few of these in my youthful fifties??).

Anyway, to distract me from my roofless cottage (walking away…), my birthday bounty already includes the promise of:

• A pizza cooking lesson
• A bespoke viewing of 3 episodes of Guardians of the Galaxy (who knew? And a holiday special apparently) on the same day (#hopingtherewillbesnacks)
• A country music concert
• A cricket match
• A jewellery making lesson
• A mudlarking experience
• A meal for family and friends
• Tree hugging
• A hovercraft driving session
• Sailing
• A ‘Bristol Surprise’ – fingers crossed that it doesn’t involve football…
• A trip to Arran

I defy anyone – regardless of age – not to feel better after reading this list.

So, with this stash of promises tucked under my belt, I am beginning to feel excited about becoming 60 tomorrow. At the Christmas Dinner last night, it was also agreed that I can now start behaving badly (this may be more difficult for me, for I come from a long line of Methodist rule followers) and that I should now consider dating younger men (dating is problematic on account of my romantic awkwardness, but at least it keeps my friends amused; no great expectation here, but I agree that it would be nice to meet a 60-Something Silver Fox who is not looking for a carer).

Thank you for navigating through the fifty-somethings with me. Who knows where the blog trail may lead once we get past tomorrow, but I have it on very good authority that life begins at 60; I may keep you posted.

I leave you with a photo of a cheeky early birthday cake (lovingly baked by my above mudlarking gifter and shared with my smashing book clubbers, and the thought that I am childish enough to be spending my actual birthday eve viewing the ‘Wonka’ film with some other lovely nutters. I have a golden ticket into the next decade and if I do wake up like a crumpled pumpkin, I will have all the ingedients I need to make a seasonal latte.