Ambling into Milliways as fast as one can while leaning on a titanium walking stick, Mal smiles to himself. Fifty years. Fifty years of trials and tribulations and everything in the black getting thrown at him, and he can still come to the Bar at the End of the Universe; on his birthday no less.
Not immediately seeing anyone around that he knows, he pulls up a comfortable chair by the fire and pulls out his size 10 circular knitting needles and the beginnings of what looks to be an afghan. It's not to keep, he swears.