The ages of woman

It is only one more day now until the long summer holidays are upon me, rather like a rash, or a virulent case of Swine Flu. I am pessimistic as to whether I will make it through the entire six weeks without going postal in the Co-op and releasing all the haslet from the deli counter shouting: ‘Fly! Be free!’  Still, at least I’ll get on Midlands News, and what could be more exciting than that?

Tomorrow is my last day off without any children.  I am going into town with my mother to eat lunch at Carluccios and sob with joy over one of their perfect lime and raspberry meringue pies.  I may even have a glass of wine.  Or two.

I must remember to stay reasonably upright as I have guests for tea and there is a Brownie based shindig over at the local Hollywood Bowl which Tilly needs escorting to.  I cannot swig red wine out of the bottle whilst sticking grissini in my ears and railing at the world.  It is not the done thing.  It would be quite fun in the short term, but sadly I am now so middle aged I think about things like consequences now.

This is one of the big differences between youth and middle age.  In youth we are so full of joie de vivre we think little of having our ears syringed in A&E for stray crumbs from Italian bakeries.  We laugh with disdain at the idea that eight hours after the last drink is pushed down our unresisting gullet we will be chundering for England, wondering what the hell those funny lumps are and trying to keep the vomit out of our hair.  We know without a shadow of a doubt that dark glasses, a huge greasy fry up and fourteen pints of orange juice will smooth over any residual feelings of hangover that may assail us.  No worries.

When we are middle aged we know that we will probably be hung over three days after the event, that it will be us picking lumps of regurgitated carrot out of the tufted Wilton, and the fact that we have a blinding headache that is literally splitting our skull in two is not going to stop our beloved children re-enacting the Battle of the Somme across the living room floor while we are trying gently to push our eyeballs back into their sockets without weeping.  It is just not worth it.  Not unless some foolish member of the family has agreed to have them on extended loan anyway.

I like to think that when I am old, my previous joie de vivre will come sweeping back with a vengeance and I will be staggering round in my YSL peep toe Tribute shoes, wearing very inappropriate skirts, smoking Cuban cigars rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens and hoofing champagne by the magnum for breakfast, lunch and tea.  After all, what will I have to lose? Senility, incontinence and Age Concern bingo on a Thursday, that’s what.  Bring it on.