It makes me smile.

The trap is not in growing up. The trap is in refusing to accept what you’ve grown up to become.

At fifty-nine, I’ve become someone my nineteen-year-old self would never have anticipated and yet might still have recognised, the way one instantly notices something familiar but out of place.

The day passed in discussions of PACE-layered application landscapes, post-modern ERP, digital disruption, and optimally immersive user experiences. It would be ridiculous if its impact on how we live and work were not so real.

Afterwards, I pushed out into the darkness, glad to be alone, grabbed something to eat, and then headed towards my monk’s cell of a hotel room.

This is the part of the day I’ve been looking forward to. I’m staying at The Royal Foundation of St. Katherine, an old building in the East End, which offers the tranquility of rooms with WiFi but no television, and public areas with art and gardens but no bar. I feel, curiously, at peace here. Nothing is demanded of me except to take some time to be still and listen to myself.

What I hear is dissatisfaction with a life that no longer feels mine and a hunger for something both simpler and more meaningful.

What I don’t hear is what to do about it.

I think again of the sign in the shop window. For me, growing up is a trap I’ve already sprung. My next trick will be to grow old. I’d like to perform it free of the shackles of routine and the drive of ambition.

The trap is not in growing up. The trap is in refusing to accept what you’ve grown up to become.

At fifty-nine, I’ve become someone my nineteen year-old self would never have anticipated and yet might still have recognised, the way one instantly notices something familiar but out of place.

The day passed in discussions of pace-layered application landscapes, post-modern ERP, digital disruption and optimally immersive user experiences. It would be ridiculous if its impact on how we live and work were not so real.

Afterwards, I pushed out into the darkness, glad to be alone, grabbed something to eat and then headed towards my monk’s cell of a hotel room.

This is the part of the day I’ve been looking forward to. I’m staying at The Royal Foundation of St. Katherine, an old building in the East End, that offers the tranquility of rooms with wifi but no television and a public areas with art and gardens but no bar. I feel, curiously, at peace here. Nothing is demanded of me except to take some time to be still and listen to myself.

What I hear is dissatisfaction with a life that no longer feels mine and a hunger for something both simpler and more meaningful.

What I don’t hear is what to do about it.

I think again of the sign in the shop window. For me, growing up is a trap I’ve already sprung. My next trick will be to grow old. I’d like perform it free of the shackles of routine and the drive of ambition.