So. A big, round-numbered and menacing birthday coming up in a few weeks. Not to give too much away, but in the month I was born, Momoe Yamaguchi’s Fuyu no Iro was electrifying the charts, Terror of Mechagodzilla was about to hit cinemas, and Okinawa was busying itself with last-minute preparations for Expo ’75.
There are various ways to put this sombre milestone in context. I am a year younger than Hello Kitty, a decade younger than the Shinkansen bullet train and 100,000 years younger than Mount Fuji. All of those are still going strong, I suppose, although none are troubled by high cholesterol, resting-rate ruefulness or the ever-louder clicking from the mileometer of missed opportunities.
But then I remember, more cheerfully, that this birthday will be taking place in creaking, ageing Japan — a land where grey is the new black, lumbago is the new “Lambada” and 50 is not only the new 20, but more or less the median age.