Yep, I’m now 6 months away from reaching the golden milestone (or should that read pumice stone?) of 60. The other day whilst doing some weeding in the garden I tried to give myself an uplift by thinking of various catchy descriptions one could use for celebrating such a ripe mature age, such as, sexy sixty, saucy sixty, sensational sixty, seductive sixty…even, dare I say, sizzling sixty. I had so much fun playing this game, giggling at the bizarre to the ridiculous suggestions that flooded my head, that I had become completely blasé about the amount of time I was actually spending kneeling down - until I tried to get up that is. Unfortunately, my entire body found the process of standing up again somewhat challenging and so I found myself doing an involuntary `downward dog’ pose for at least ten minutes whilst squeezing the life out of my pelvic floor and willing my knees to actually do something useful. Once I had mastered the art of crawling from primeval ape to a vertical woman again, I was surprised at just how many more descriptions suddenly came to mind… stiff sixty, stuffed sixty, spectacular with cellulite sixty! A hot shower never felt so good!
Heaven knows what possessed me, but I never thought I’d see the living day when I would actually succumb to wearing a cooking apron. And, what’s more… in public! But then I never thought I could be lured into the bosom of the WI clan so easily. I’ve found myself checking the mirror just to simply verify that I haven’t turned into my mother overnight. It was all down to volunteering to help out at the village hall and do afternoon teas. I had this image of being a sort of floating Felicity Kendal sidestepping the walking frames and walking sticks to put out teapots and cake. But I knew it wasn’t going to bode well when a young family of five came in asking for the vegan alternative and did we do iced frappes and avocado toasties? I offered her a toasted teacake and squash but she said “no” and finally settled on an egg mayo sandwich and the lemon drizzle instead. Far be it for me to criticise but some table manners are well below what I remember as a child. I know that lifting the little finger went out of fashion long ago, maybe in the 1980’s when Madonna started singing about being ‘like a virgin’ and was anything but…. However, I soon had to turn a blind eye as hordes of excitable people started to flood the hall (think of a Boxing Day sale and you have some idea), placing themselves on any available table and waving for attention. For the next two hours I became a human sacrifice to Victoria sponge and flapjack; the pinball wizard of cream teas as I ping ponged amongst the tables, running back to the kitchen just to be propelled back into sandwich city again armed with more cafeterias and tea pots. I must have secretly loved it though as I’ve offered to bake something for next time…thank heavens for flat shoes and Aunt Bessie’s cake mix!
Is it just me or have mobile phones become a dangerous companion. In the car – ping! In the restaurant – ping! On the toilet- ping, ping ping!! And there’s so many spam calls nowadays. If it not energy companies secreting their best deals at me its solar panel opportunists with the offer of the century. But I can admit that my mobile is certainly good company when waiting in a queue and I do find that flicking through social media posts can be somewhat therapeutic at times. Mind you, it certainly is uncanny just how many surgeons from the USA love my profile and want to be friends…that’s when the wonderful block and delete comes in handy…PING! Oh sorry, gotta go…my hairdresser has just replied to my appointment text.