Saturday mornings are bliss, aren’t they? The first morning of the weekend, no need to put the alarm on, a time to relax and recover from Friday Night Frolics.
Yet there I was, knocking off the alarm – for a fitness class.
Yup, a fitness class. I have become the type of woman who forsakes the Saturday lie-in in favour of a knackering hour at the gym. (I am starting to get very worried that somehow when I turned 50, I went through a wormhole in space and am now in a very strange parallel dimension where I do things like this. Donald Trump as US President has to be pretty strong evidence in favour of that hypothesis, no?)
This is a weird age. At one point, when I look at it written down – or when I have to scroll back through the years to register online and the mouse is moving like Mo Farah – I feel old. Or rather, I feel I should be old, because most of the time I feel the same as I did in sixth form.
There is a feeling, once you get past 40, that you should start disappearing, blend into the background and let the beautiful young things shine. Don’t wear short skirts; don’t have long hair; wear comfortable shoes…
It’s the feeling when you look in the mirror and think: “A woman nearly 50 should not be wearing that outfit”, as I did a few weeks ago with the get-up below. But then, I think “short skirt, black tights, flat shoes – still got it”. Continue reading
I promised to be honest in this blog and yet… is this a post too far? Will I regret it? Will I be greeted by jeers and titters on the Tube tomorrow morning?
Okay, probably not.
But I’m about to write on a subject that few women like discussing and most keep to themselves – hair.
All I want is a top. Perhaps, two tops. Okay, definitely three. That’s all. It’s not like I’m asking to take Aidan Turner’s inside leg measurement, is it?
Actually, I think wiping down Poldark’s excess sweat would be a much easier challenge than being a near-50-year-old searching for clothes. Continue reading
(Well, that title’s not bloody true for a start because Kendall Jenner’s not on the list so that’s the young ones out of it.)
Confession time, I am a slob. I am not one of nature’s stylish people, nor do I particularly work at it. I’d love to – oh God, would I love to – because there is nothing more awe-inspiring than seeing an effortlessly chic person.
(Yes, yes, I know. The birth of a baby, the Milky Way, everything Mother Nature puts out etc. But at 8am, when my mouth can still taste the coffee and my brain can’t and there’s a “I just threw this on” Ines de la Fressange lookalike opposite me looking like she’s had a night of champagne and non-stop rampant sex and oooozing with confidence and Continue reading