How strange is life. This morning I looked in the mirror, and somehow everything about my appearance had changed. I read somewhere that once you reach 45 the dreaded middle aged spread is guaranteed to attach itself to the waistline and it is at this point the ravishes (yes, I said ravishes, not ravages) of time become fixed and irreversible. I have 4 years to go. So why am I surprised to see a few laughter lines, a grey hair or two and a couple of wobbly bits, especially around the middle? Because I have 4 years to go, or so I thought!
When I was a child I thought that all grown ups over the age of 30 were middle aged. Except for those who were 50 or more, who were proper old people, and were always grandma's and grandpa's or even great grandparents. As the years begin to streak by at an alarming rate I am ever more hopeful that the sentiments I hear from my friends and colleagues are indeed true: that 50 really is the new 40, or 60 is the new 50, and that if and when I reach a ripe old age I will still be living it to the absolute full - courtesy of cosmetic surgery, hair extensions, a good win on the lottery and several bottles of decent plonk!
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