The major roadworks at the Bow Roundabout are complete and traffic is flowing freely again. Hoo-bloody-rah. It took longer than strictly necessary for all the cones to be removed. They lingered mysteriously on a couple of arms of the roundabout, so for example traffic on Bow Road was still being unnecessarily funnelled into one lane even when traffic arriving from the A12 had the full two lanes available. But with all the cones gone six months of disruption have finally ended, so if traffic snarls up now it's because of rush hours and normal congestion rather than anything self-imposed. Also when I said the roadworks were complete I was lying, they're still working on the expansion joints. This is because the Bow Interchange isn't just a roundabout/flyover/underpass combo, it's also a bridge over the River Lea. The current bridge is now 55 years old so it made sense to use this opportunity to give the metal joints a good once-over, and for practical reasons most of that renovation is being done at the end of the works. A team from a company called BridgeCare turned up with two huge vehicles called Bridge Expansion Joint Units and used shovels, blowtorches and specialist equipment along the length of a curved groove, measuring out the gaps between the two joints with wooden blocks. Previous updates: #0 #1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #6 #7 #8 #9 #10 #11 #12 #13 #14 #15 #16 #17 #18

A selection of thoughts from Sunday 1) I only received 5 birthday cards this year, most of them from people who remember me being born in 1965 (dgD, dGA3, dgDBM). Pictured are some of the 43 cards I received when I was born, all of a very 1960s aesthetic. Number of birthday cards received (age 0) - 43 (age 20) - 23 (age 40) - 16 (age 60) - 5 2) I was hoping to catch a nice early train from Hackney Wick but there weren't any, indeed it turns out on Sundays there never are. The entire Mildmay line between Willesden Junction and Stratford is unserved before 9am on Sundays, with the first westbound train departing Stratford at 0900 and the first eastbound train departing Willesden Junction at 0902. The station with the slowest start is Camden Road whose first Sunday train arrives at 0922, and I wonder if that's the latest timetabled start on any day on any TfL line. 3) Sunday was an unseasonably springlike day for early March, at 18°C the warmest 9th March since 2014. The warmest 9th March on record was in 1948 with 23.9°C recorded at Wealdstone, that's 75°F. While I was researching this online I also found the weather forecast for the day I was born ("England and Wales will be sunny and rather warm this afternoon, but frost and some fog patches will return tonight in midland and eastern districts"). The temperature was -5°C at Kew when I was born, rising to 10°C in the afternoon, and my Dad would have cycled through fog to see me at the hospital. The Met Office has a nerdily detailed archive of weather forecasts and data records for the whole country here. 4) To enjoy the weather I walked the Croxley Boundary Walk, a 6.3 mile waymarked circuit around the village where I grew up. It's a fantastically varied walk for somewhere so close to London (canal towpath, country lane, fields, village green, river valley, chalk stream, woods, disused railway, moorland) and well signed throughout. On the way round I spotted several signs of spring (catkins, snowdrops, daffodils, crocuses, celandines, flowering cherries, budding trees, nest-building, butterflies, bees collecting blossom, emerging bluebell stalks), also a fox, several swans, a heron and a pair of red kites. I previously walked the Croxley Boundary Walk on 9th March 2014, and blogged about it then so I won't again, but do enjoy a few photos and yes I do recommend it. 5) On the way round the Croxley Boundary Walk there's a lovely path that climbs across a large field from the edge of Whippendell Woods. I was shocked to discover there's now a plan to turn this field into 600 houses, unexcitingly titled 'Land north of Little Green Lane', which would extend the village's built-up area by 5%. Thankfully the top end of the field would survive, reworked as Rousebarn Country Park, but the whole plan's brazenly speculative and very poorly connected to the rest of the village. Whatever the government's definition of 'grey belt' is, this definitely isn't it. 6) I've had plans for a while to see if I could get a mention on the radio on the occasion of my 60th birthday. In the event one of my target shows turned out to be pre-recorded, one was doing an International Women's Day special, one doesn't really do dedications any more, one I wasn't listening to at the crucial moment, one I forgot about until it was too late and the one email I did send made no ripples whatsoever. If anyone sent in a message on my behalf and I missed it do let me know, else I'll have to wait another ten years. 7) BestMate and BestMate'sOtherHalf took me out for a meal in the West End and we started off with cocktails. We thought we'd try the Cellar Door, the speakeasy bar squished into a former gents toilet off Aldwych, which Londonist described as "a mirrored microcosm", Time Out as "a tiny basement" and Secret London as "lav-ley". It seems it only picks up after 9pm, pre-cabaret, so it was pretty much dead. Also they were probably the slowest cocktails I've ever had, sluggishly confected, so the atmosphere really didn't match the setting. 8) For my birthday meal we went to London's oldest restaurant which is Rules in Covent Garden, established 1798. It's a classical warren adorned by Georgian portraits, seemingly with a regular clientele of ruddy couples, shire buddies and old money. The food's extremely traditional, all meat, game and oysters, although not so staid that they won't stick a candle in some ice cream and bring it to your table. For my main I was totally set on steak and kidney pudding until I saw they were doing a proper Sunday roast, then couldn't resist crumble and custard for dessert. BestMate has kindly shielded me from the overall bill. Also we had the table next to the really famous one, the one where M's seen dining in Spectre and which brings all the James Bond fans to the pass. 9) While I was out, Radio 4 broadcast a half-hour documentary by a blogger who rides buses and writes about them, in this case the new V1 nightbus from Manchester to Leigh. It was dead thoughtful of them to schedule something so on point on the occasion of my birthday. Incidentally if you're waiting for me to report back on the number 60 bus route, I'm planning to make that the first trip I do with my 60+ Oyster card when it arrives, which it hasn't yet so you'll need to be patient. 10) I may have overdone it, I had to lie down at one point. But if what you want for a milestone birthday is a memorable day then Sunday certainly delivered.

Unblogged things I did in March 1965 I wasn't around at the start of March 1965, I was lurking embryonically ready to make a grand appearance. Even when I did emerge I had no linguistic ability, no long-term memory nor any recognition of what on earth was going on, plus there were no blogs or the internet I could have recorded things on anyway. But my Mum had just started keeping a diary, perhaps in recognition of the enormous changes a first child would mean in her life, which allows me to bring you this (heavily edited) account of my earliest days. The first nine days are in her own words, the rest of the month I've paraphrased. Cast of characters Mon 1: Rather cold but nice bright morning. Got all my washing and ironing done nice and early. Had a quick clean round downstairs. Sat and almost finished one dress in afternoon. Watched TV and knitted in evening. [Monday was always washday in the 60s, even when you were nine months pregnant] [I wonder if that dress was baby sized and meant for me had I been a girl] [likely candidates for programmes watched included Date With Doonican, Bewitched and Perry Mason] Tue 2: Letter from dgGM and dgGF, they hope to come this weekend. Did the net curtains and some woolies. Cleaned all the windows inside. Very cold wind today. Went to the shops in the afternoon, then wrote a letter to dgGM. Watched TV in the evening. dgD has another cold coming. [My mum had taken to spring cleaning with a vengeance, either because this was normal back then or because she realised she wouldn't be getting much cleaning done imminently] [temperatures would fall to -7°C that evening, the coldest night of the winter] [wow, the joys of receiving a letter and writing back the same day, safe in the knowledge it would arrive almost immediately] [likely candidates for programmes watched included Compact and The Danny Kaye Show] Wed 3: Had a quick clean round. Went to dGA1 in the morning. Went to clinic everything alright. Lost 4ozs this week. Was home before 2.45. Sat and finished rompers. In bed early as both tired. [My auntie lived a few miles away so I suspect my pregnant mum rode round on her scooter, a very mid-60s form of transport] [I can just picture the Sirdar knitting pattern for those rompers] Thu 4: Card from dgGM to say dgA2 was coming out of hospital. Snowing very hard this morning. Didn't get up for church. Swept snow away in front and at back. dgD went to Cubs. I watched TV and knitted. [I'm not sure why my mum would have been off to church, Ash Wednesday was yesterday] [I found this newsreel from 4th March 1965 showing heavy snow in Trafalgar Square and train derailments] [My Dad wasn't in the Cubs, he helped out] [likely candidates for programmes watched included Top of the Form, Top of the Pops and Dr Kildare] Fri 5: Up early for milkman. Down the shops early, went to library. Did a quick clean round. Snow going slowly. dgDBM came round for evening. dgGM and dgGF arrived at 8.30. Stayed up talking late. [Paying the milkman required getting up early on a Friday, even I remember that] [My Dad's BestMate wasn't my godfather yet but it was already clear he was going to be] [My grandparents lived on the other side of Hertfordshire so that would have been quite a journey on a Friday evening after work] Sat 6: dgGM did my washing and all got dry. dgGF and dgD went into Watford in the afternoon. Sat and talked rest of afternoon and evening. Did watch TV as well. [This was well before washing machines so laundry was a big thing] [Watford FC were playing away at Colchester that afternoon so I know nobody sneaked off to the football] [likely candidates for programmes watched included Dixon of Dock Green and The Black and White Minstrel Show] Sun 7: dgGF swept the chimney with help from dgD. Gave the room a spring clean. dgGM washed our carpet. dgGM2 and dgGF2 called in. dgD cleared the shed. dgGM and dgGF left 6.15 to go home. [There's a heck of a lot of serious cleaning going on. Was the entire 1960s like this or was everyone just treading water waiting for me to arrive?] [seriously bad timing here from my grandparents, having to travel 20 miles home just before the event they were really looking forward to was about to happen] Mon 8: More or less spring cleaned all rooms upstairs. Did a little bit of washing. dgD home at six, felt alright. By 6.30 thought I might be in labour. dgA3 called in with my birthday present. Neighbour came round and kept time. Went to hospital just after 10. dgD came home having been told it wouldn't be yet. Given something to make me sleep but by 1.30 getting more pains. Taken to delivery ward by 2.30. Given an injection don't remember much else. [A pivotal day that started with cleaning and ended in labour] [how suddenly my parents' lives changed, from a normal day at work to here comes a child in half an hour flat] [good timing from my auntie to bring my Mum a birthday present just before she went to hospital] [how typical that my Dad got sent home from hospital just before everything really kicked off] Tue 9: About five was told to push. Used mask till just before the end and then I watched dg being born. Most wonderful feeling. dgD was told to ring at 6 so didn't make it in on time. dg arrived 6.4am. Was put in a two bed ward, much better. Had flowers from dg, dgGM/dgGF and telegram from family friend. dgD brought my birthday cards in when he came to see us. He held dg for a second, and came again in evening. 7lb 12oz. Black hair and brown eyes. All his skin peeling. [I don't know what you did on your 30th birthday but my Mum spent hers in hospital on heavy drugs, screaming in agony and giving birth to me] [we didn't have a phone at home so my Dad had to ring the hospital from a phone box outside the library, which isn't how it would happen these days with vastly improved telecommunications] [I was born four minutes after his phone call while he was cycling in] [I didn't really send my mum some flowers, my Dad bought them on my behalf (and accidentally left the shop without paying for them)] [my Mum really appreciated having one present to open in hospital, my auntie tells me] [technically I was her biggest 30th birthday present, obviously] [it's sad how little contact my parents had with me on my first day] [a birthweight of 3½kg is average today and I think was above average back then] [I bet you don't have this level of detail about your first day on the planet] Wed 10: Apparently I refused to take to breastfeeding so had to go on the bottle, which I can see my Mum was extremely disappointed about. Sorry about that. Back at home a lot of post was arriving. Thu 11: I was laid down in a different room to my recuperating Mum so she didn't see me much. On the plus side that meant she didn't have to change my first nappy, a sister did that for her. Fri 12: Had my name registered by the local registrar. Mum was still having an uncomfortable time of things and needed help to sleep. Sat 13: Still in hospital. My Mum dressed me and changed my nappy for the first time. I still had dry skin so a nurse oiled me. Sun 14: My long-distance grandparents came to see me for the first time. Visiting time was stretched from half an hour to an hour. They were thrilled to see me. Mon 15: Mum changed my nappy and I promptly filled the clean one. Sorry Mum. Tue 16: Mum now feeling a lot better. Finally allowed home a week after I was born. I was taken home in my godfather's two-seater sports car, clutched in my Mum's arms. Visited my Auntie's house on the way back. Neighbours started popping in to see me. I slept all the way through from midnight to 7am - well done me. Wed 17: A nurse came round to check my umbilical cord, which came off later in the afternoon. Mum was back doing the washing again. Thu 18: My grandmother and another auntie came round, which finally allowed Mum to get her hair done. Fri 19: Visits from my auntie, cousin, neighbour and health visitor. My auntie bought me a little nylon suit and my Mum some flowers. I slept through til 5am again. Sat 20: The first day in my life that no health professional saw me, I was solely in the loving care of my parents. I also got to experience sleeping in my new pram. Sun 21: Went on my first outing... to my grandparents down the road. Stayed to dinner and tea, which my Mum appreciated not having to make. Mon 22: A lot of my Mum's diary is now all about sleeping and feed times, so perhaps best leave it there. But how absolutely fascinating to have a window into my earliest days, and all the chaos and emotion and joy and pain and I brought. Thanks Mum, from your 60 year-old son on the day after what would have been your 90th birthday.

I have somehow reached the age of 60 and I'm not sure how I feel about that. 60 is a milestone age and a proper one for once. 50 was fine, 50 was just a half-century, it didn't mean anything. 40 was merely a number to make the middle-aged feel uncomfortable, nothing tangible actually happened. 30 was an inconsequential blur that only a vain 29 year-old could ever be flustered by. But hit 60 and things are different, there are actual changes to the way you're treated. teens. 16 meant I could shag, 17 meant I could drive and 18 meant I could drink and vote. But after 18 any age-related benefits were generally minor, like being able to go to better nightclubs or get an HGV licence. 60 is suddenly a properly significant birthday again, which after 42 years of insignificance comes as a bit of a jolt. 60 is also when society starts to offer you rewards in recognition of your age. Suddenly you're a 'Senior' and all sorts of nice little concessions kick in like cheaper haircuts, cut price cinema tickets, £4 off admission at Coventry Transport Museum or 10% off shopping at Iceland on a Tuesday. Not everywhere is so generous, so for example Kew Gardens and the Tower of London make you wait until you're 65 and the London Eye charges everyone over 16 the same. But before today I would never even have bothered to look at the Concessions tab and now suddenly it might be well worth it. (ooh, National Trust Senior Membership is 25% off the normal subscription and I am now eligible, that's how useful checking rewards for today's post has been) Bow Geezers, and they appear to be having a cheerily excellent time every time they meet up but I could have joined that at 55 and I didn't. 60 is just a number with a zero on the end, a number we choose to see as special. I was going to say that it's only special because we count in 10s but in fact it'd have a zero on the end if we counted in 2s, 3s, 4s, 5s, 6s, or 12s instead, indeed of all the years in the human lifespan it's the year with the greatest number of factors so maybe that means it really is fundamentally special after all. 60 is when older people start to welcome you to their world. "See," they say, "it's not so bad. 60 was nothing, it's 70 you need to worry about... or 75/80 depending. 60 is merely piddly foothills, we need not speak of it, but by the way welcome to the club." 60 was once the start of the countdown towards death. When I was born in 1965 the average life expectancy for men was about 68, indeed neither of my grandfathers got past 70. It's very different today, thankfully, with the ONS website confirming that the average 60 year-old male has a life expectancy of 84 with a 1 in 4 chance of reaching 92. The Grim Reaper's still coming, indeed could cut you down anytime, but he's a lot further away than previous generations expected. kicked back, in terms of state pension to 67 and stretching further later, so no longer the employment guillotine it used to be nor the dawn of pipe and slippers leisure. niggles at present but with the potential to one day properly scupper things, though I fervently hope I'll be able to get to 70 and say they still haven't. I used my Senior Railcard for the first time yesterday to take me to the Essex village where my grandmother met my grandfather. She was the cleaner in the pub and he was the dishy postman on his daily rounds, and she'd lean out of the window for a chat and that's how it all started. It's a restaurant now and sadly wasn't open so I couldn't go in, but I did pause for a while and ponder the significance of the windows that led to my Mum being born and me being here today. In particular it made me realise that the elderly couple I'd only known in their 60s were once young and playful and hopeful and happy, and you should never judge people on how old they are now but on a lifetime of achievement. 60 is strange because for everyone else it's just a normal Sunday whereas as for me and the other 2350 Britons born on 9th March 1965 it's a potential existential crisis. 60 is an unwelcome eyeopener. 60 is well special. 60 is nothing. 60 is what you make of it.