My dad turned 30 in 1990, by which time he’d found my mum, accrued a kid, a dog and a house with a large back yard for the dog and kid to run around in. A life, in other words. That was 30 back then.
This month I turn 30, when I’ll celebrate with about 20 mates, a lot of beers and an Oasis cover band I’m hiring to play at the expensive, rundown share house in Fitzroy I rent, which has hardly any back yard. This is also 30.
