‘Life Begins at 40’ said American psychologist Walter Pitkin in his 1932 self-help book of the same name. ‘This is the revolutionary outcome of our New Era. Today it is half a truth. Tomorrow it will be an axiom.’ Life expectancy in medieval England was around 25 years and only reached forty sometime around the turn of the 20th century. So of course the basic material comforts of the last 100 years have allowed us to exist well past our original, biological sell-by-dates and into a life state of post-lifespan idle enjoyment.

Lusso is certainly not past its sell by date, even as we reach our Ruby issue. Slightly silvering at the temples, a slightly more rugged appearance since we lost the puppy fat and a causal ease of manner that you only get when you have some miles on the clock. Talking of miles on the clock, we don’t go in for ‘basic material comfort’. So our miles were clocked up on the McLaren 650S supercar, the world’s nastiest (in a good way) Aston Martin and a couple of Lexuses thrown in for good measure. Did someone say ‘mid-life crisis’?

There’s been some very fine dining across the world and a bit of the outdoor pursuits, the imbibing of some highly recommended adult beverages and we didn’t pull a hernia or make that ‘yyyuurrrrgh’ sound when we got up from our very comfortable chair. Being 40? Piece of piss. Well, four times. In the night. Since you ask.

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