Bernard O'Shea

Every Monday at precisely 9.12am, a new me appears: Organised, focused, maybe even limber from a lemon-water ritual. Clipboard-worthy, this man has a plan, a structure, and, in his mind, he’s already transformed his life. By Thursday evening, he vanishes without a trace, leaving me in the kitchen, resignedly munching a cold sausage roll found behind the coleslaw. By now, I’ve quit pretending it’s a chance. It’s a pattern.

I was reading the Under 30 list the other day and, fair play, the people on it are impressive: Young founders, actors, scientists, and entrepreneurs. They are the sort of people who, by the age of 27, have already disrupted an industry, built a platform, raised venture capital, and probably have a morning routine involving ice baths and detailed breathing. But the minute you get to 50, the tone changes completely.

I was standing in the green room after last week, jacket still on, and my mum texted me: “You’re very hard on yourself.” She meant it kindly. I texted back something deflecting and funny, because that’s what I do, and we both laughed, and I thought about it the whole way home. She was right, of course. The dad bod jokes, the belly, the running commentary on my own slow physical decline — it’s not just material. It’s a pre-emptive strike. Get there first, take the sting out, move on.