Ask anyone to write a letter to their 25-year-old self and they won’t be kind.

Indeed, given the responses to our writing contest last month – we asked you to write a 100-word letter to your 25-year-old self — being 25 is one of the most arrogant, unknowing, unseeing and cringeworthy times of our lives. Did I really spend all that money on a watch? Hook up with a known psychopath? Treat my best friend like dirt? And don’t even talk to me about drinking and drugging. We’re lucky to be alive.

I remember back in the 80s my film festival friend, Helga Stephenson, asked if I would help her ‘chaperone’ a party for TIFF’s young financial supporters. They were all under 30. They were smart, attractive, fit and cocksure. They beamed with certainty. Helga said as we left: “Life hasn’t happened to them yet.”

True that.

Clearly, the older you drift from 25, the younger 25 looks. By the time you’re twice that age, life is often a muddle, or a slow-motion leap off the cliff. Get to threescore years and ten and it can be a tragedy in the making. Get to 80, and more tires are coming off the car than staying on.

Read on…