I’ve lived for 57 years, but copywritten for just 25. I’m a youngster. I can’t see any age gaps big enough to fall down. I’m still learning and still admit it. But that’s fine. I’ve just realised it’s OK not to know everything. I sit up in bed and wonder what 2060 will bring me. I can barely wait. I don’t yet have a career. Just a job I reinvent every day. Every brief is my first. I devour it like a werewolf and hug it till sunrise. My mentors are still legends, colleagues, students, even cleaners. Age immaterial. Immortality is my middle name, and criticism my daily bread. Rather than open my stupid mouth, I listen. Most of my friends are still looking for Mr. or Mrs. Perfect. I say “Please, may I have…?” and “Thank you for having me.” My dad critiques my haircuts, dress sense, common sense, choice of girl and, yes, I call him dad. I giggle. I eat gummy bears. My four jokes all have words of four letters. To me, the word “veteran” simply means polite and helpful. I’m still an undergraduate at the renowned University of Life. Its students are perpetual. No wonder. Before I write, I doodle. Matchstick men, robots, sci-fi flowers, two-headed fish, apparitions, stuff. I eat cookies at midnight. I play the cello with folk a quarter my height and with four times the talent. I wear fancy dress. At least, that’s what my sister calls it. I’m up for a trip to Mars. But this world will be forever my oyster, my playground and my mine of new ways to write for you. Forever yours, Andrew.