Last February, I went to the funeral of a good friend, and shocked myself at the number of gravestones marking the deaths of people at the age of 48. Forty-eight - it seems - is a fashionable age to die round these parts, and was something that did not appeal to me in the slightest.
Then, I turned 48.
Twelve months in living in the fear of Death's icy grip (including one day under the surgeon's knife), and I am now forty-nine years old.
Yes, another year closer to that hole in the ground, but I have this to say: IN YOUR FACE GRIM REAPER I AM BULLET-PROOF.