A dangerous age

The Glorious '45

Clearly, I’ll be watching headlines from the Middle East like a hawk from now on. But it could be argued that moving to Beirut is one helluva way to sidestep dealing with a mid-life crisis.

I’m 44 in December. And if not now, when? And what an antitode to being grim and dire bloody 44 years old. I mean, really, is there any more an uninspiring age to be than 44? Except 54 of course. 42 and 43 don’t seem too dire by comparison, and even 45 sounds a lot better. 45? The prime of life. A Colt 45, 45rpm, the glorious ‘45 of the Jacobite rebellion in Bonnie Scotland, the end of WWII. Good old 45. But 44? Well, you have D-Day, and then in 1844… Engels and Marx meet in a Parisian cafe. 1744 was halfway through the Seven years war, and er… that’s about it. So like, 44, uninspiring number right? I’d do just about anything to forget I’m 44 later this year, and this seems one way to go about it. I just hope I make it to 45.

Again. I’m not quite as blasé as I sound. I just returned from a meeting with a bureau chief of one of New Zealand’s better known TV stations. There’s a possibility they might employ me from time-to-time, to file reports from Lebanon, ‘Our Man in Beirut’, sort of thing. The international component of New Zealand television news is so short it’s practically subliminal, but you never know. As far as most Kiwis are concerned, and I suspect it’s the same for most Americans, all anyone ever does in the Lebanon does is sit around in darkened rooms plotting the overthrow of the West.  However small a role I might have to play in demystification/clarification, it’s one I relish.

In a week and a day, I’m outa here. I am beginning to measure the time left available in half hour blocks. And do my best to keep you posted…