Wednesday 12 December 2012

The Onslaught of Young Middle Age

If children and teenagers are doing things earlier and earlier these days then I suppose it is only logical that twenty-somethings are growing up that little bit quicker.

It struck me yesterday that I am far more interested in the pursuits of someone thrice my age than doing the things a woman of my age 'should' be doing. I'd like to think that it isn't because I've suddenly dried up, become dull, and turned into a miserly Scrooge but that it is a reflection of the remote countryside in which I live. What I'm saying, I suppose, is that someone my age should be socialising heavily, relying on a liquid diet, laughing raucously in a pub at lewd jokes, wearing a ridiculously short dress (because, let's face it, these legs won't last forever), and trying to rack up a number of admirers that Casanova would give his seal of approval to. This portrayal might not  be everybody's cup of tea, and I know not every twenty-whatever-year-old thinks this is the perfect way to spend this particular decade. I'm not sure I do myself.

However, my life is so far removed from this image - my life is so far removed from any decent place to go out in anyway - I fear my street cred has plummeted from a coolness that might just about allow me to wear a bobble-hat and get away with it to a coolness more appropriate to a beer left to warm in the sun:

At home, I listen to Radio 4 and chuckle heartily at the Dickensian spoofs they've been broadcasting; in the car I like Classical FM. I drink port and my 'gintolerance' level has decreased. My idea of a good Christmas present this year is a slate cheeseboard and several pairs of socks because the other ones all have holes. The freezing weather is a subject about which I constantly grumble and wearing heels has become my idea of Chinese water torture. Crosswords are preferable to Jagerbombs. Flower-arranging is now a valid form of day-to-day art and The English Home magazine is my source of all crystal-related knowledge (it all depends on the percentage of lead-oxide. Fascinating stuff.).

And so when faced with a flock of young twenty-year-olds, my cheeks turn ashen, and the cold sweats kick in - I am up Dragon Alley without a well-equipped saint. The only Labrinth I know well is the film from the 80s. Fling me to a pack of sexagenarians, however, and you'll find me at ease talking The Shadows, Robert Redford, and how children's parties really ought to end with party-bags full of jelly sweets and not arguments over who tore little Maisy's FCUK mohair jumper.

Good grief, I need help. Especially if I'm making exclamations such as 'Good grief'.

No comments:

Post a Comment