For as long as I can remember I had never minded getting old, since being young has never really suited me. I don’t engage with or care about youth culture, I don’t own a smart phone and my idea of a good time is a night in watching kitchen sink dramas from the 1960s. What’s more, I don’t consider myself attractive or fashionable, which has meant that I’ve never had to worry about losing my youthful looks, because I don’t have any. It is only now in fact, a month before I turn thirty, that I have begun to think seriously about no longer being young and what, if anything, this means. For me the chief concern is that I might have wasted my time: wasted time working bad jobs, wasted time being friends with spiteful people, wasted time being unproductive or lazy.