Open Writing

'It must be awful having birthdays at your age,’ one of our daughters sighed pitifully, as I proudly placed my cards on the table. ‘Nothing to look forward to, doesn’t matter what you wear, no one’s really interested are they?’

Before they wheel me into the cemetery I must say I could do with a little less interest in my apparel.

I decided to take more care dressing for our local garden party and even went to the trouble of tying a gay, red neckerchief around my throat (Vidal Sassoon’s wife announced that this is the ultimate in smartness). ‘You’re not wearing that’ was the first incredulous remark. Ignoring daughter’s horror I waved son a cheery farewell.

He who never casts a second sneer when confronted with my normal gear, father’s shirt and baggy pants, now asks in the same glowing tones he would use to point out a toad on my shoulder, ‘What’s that around your neck?’ I explained that a famous hairdresser’s wife wears them all the time. ‘They probably suit her,’ he says. As their giggles turn to guffaws I must confess she was right in saying ‘a scarf brightens up the dullest outfit.’

Some birthdays ago, a friend told me ‘you don’t act as if you’re forty.’ This could be another way of saying ‘act your age,’ but I regarded it as a compliment. Here I am, middle-aged already, yet I still feel the same immature dope inside. At the moment, with a nine-year-old, two teenagers and two adult children I have become a sort of three-dimensional mum. To the youngest I am ‘Oh you . . .’ the middle girls refer to me as ‘her’ or ‘she’ – ‘She doesn’t understand,’ etc. But the eldest two who are now in the category of best friends are calling me mum again.

‘Don’t you wish you were young again?’ cry the younger ones. But when I see some of the youthful expressions drooping over the morning muesli, I think - as I always have – the best is yet to come. ‘I can’t possibly wear these jeans again for the disco moans one, throwing aside the spaghetti-shaped trousers that were going to make more impact than John Travolta’s hip joints, a fortnight ago.

‘No one likes me,’ sobs our nine-year-old on school mornings. Yet after school there is a continuous trail of dusty pump bags plus extra chairs for tea.

People ‘my age’ are not supposed to bask in the sun anymore, it encourages wrinkles. Mine don’t know this, they came anyway. In middle age one should eat less. But as I work harder than ever and cycle daily – I often ignore this. We need less sleep. I am still catching up on the nights I spent walking the floor with a baby attached to my chest – some days I even have a nap for dessert.

Theologian Selwyn Hughes has the right idea. He believes ‘a person is as
old as his attitudes not his arteries.’ Sunlight does aggravate my eyes more than it used to; I had to wear sunglasses at a bowling match last Sunday.

Searching for a toilet I wandered into a large clubroom where a couple were doing a Come Dancing act. ‘Excuse me, could you point me in the direction of the nearest toilet,’ I enquired. ‘Over there,’ said the female half without altering her chasse. The gallant gent took one look at my dark glasses and came cantering over best Victor Sylvester style. Beside himself with apologies he gasped ‘Oh I’m sorry love, er, I didn’t realise, here let me take your arm.’ It seemed a pity to spoil this beautiful moment but I had to confess ‘These are just sunglasses,’ I smiled. ‘I can see perfectly,’ and I trotted briskly across the floor – straight into the gents’ toilet.