Along with a couple of other clever ladies (I might be one of them) we have set up this site to counter the media narrative that women over 45 are dead and the execrable captions underneath pictures of women that say “Gosh doesn’t she look good for her age.” So get a life mass media. Some of us are what we always were. Just older. And probably sexier and smarter. You can find us here so if you want to read the rest of this piece, I suggest you go for a visit while I decide which of my adventures to reflect upon here. Here’s a taster
There’ll be times when you’re walking down the street and you’ll see two twenty-somethings with legs all the way to Lithuania, and that paradoxically world-weary manner of girls who have the world ahead of them. This being North London they are indeed from Lithuania. You shoot them an appreciative glance. A bit of envy maybe, but nothing deep. All you have to do is remember what they have ahead of them: adoration yes but also the insecurity of youth, the men you longed for and never understood when they hurt you, but mostly the constant jostling for your place in the world; that nagging feeling that you had to be at the centre of everything because if you weren’t you simply didn’t exist. Sure you looked great in a scrap of white broderie anglaise and bare legs but it was accessorised with insecurity and anxiety about what other people thought of you. Because you were not even sure what you thought of you. “You don’t appreciate yourself,” said my mother. I now find myself saying that to my niece who is eighteen and gorgeous. She looks at me utterly perplexed as if to say “What is there to appreciate?” And I realise it’s hard for her, like it was for me: she has no idea who she is. Youth may be a gift but it’s also one hell of a messy experiment if you do it right.
To read the rest of this piece just hop, skip and jump to here