It’s my birthday on Thursday. I know we’re all meant to be positive about ageing but let’s be honest, the whole managed decline vibe is pretty depressing. Especially as a woman. I know that’s a bad thing to say but c’mon … Weird things start happening to you in your late forties.
The peri-menopause is the gift that no-one asked for, proving that Mother Nature is a massive mean girl and no sister. It’s quite a biological achievement to have a hot flush during the night during a cold snap. There may be an ambient temperature of minus five yet there you are, burning up, tossing and turning, flinging various limbs out from under the duvet which then freeze to the point where they might snap off.
Then there’s the brain fog. Lots of shambling around the house muttering “where ARE my glasses?” as they become the search for the holy grail, only to find they are on your head or in the microwave. Then there’s the humbling sight of your body and face changing before your failing eyes. Odd things start happening. The hair on top of your head starts thinning and, in a twist no one saw coming, fresh thick, luxuriant, strands start sprouting up in all kinds of unwantedareasa, especially the chin. I recently found a hair on my jawline which was as long as I am tall. How could I have not seen it? This is why I was looking for my glasses.
Then there’s the arrival of the fat suit. OK, let’s not kid ourselves that my body is some kind of temple (although the belly does resemble the dome of a mosque which is on brand) but all this extra “you” just suddenly arrives, along with the full beard. It’s like you’re suddenly in disguise. And no amount of watching Davina or Trinny exercising on Instagram while drinking wine and crying seems to shift it. It’s a mystery.
And while the “party season” was once a thrill, there is now nothing which strikes fear and loathing into the hearts of older women than the words “something fun and bring your sparkle.” John Lewis is alive with the sound of women grunting as they attempt to shoehorn themselves into something shiny and unforgiving from Mint Velvet or Phase Eight. I had my own experience last week. After an unedifying edition of woman versus dress, I stood there, sweating, looking as though I was wrapped in baco-foil and about to be popped into the oven. Bootiful, as turkey king Bernard Matthews would have said. Why are men our age not putting themselves through such humiliation? And being paid more?
As for the actual Christmas parties… What was once non-stop fun is just an endurance test, especially when it’s icy. You know you’re very much down the path of life where you love a grab rail.
But it’s not all doom and gloom, for I have found a cunning plan to defeat my birthday blues. Given that the whole country is on strike, so too is my ageing process. We’ve come to the table, negotiated a fair and reasonable deal and, given the pandemic, shaved two years off. Now I feel different. Happy birthday to me! A mere girl of 45. I have my life ahead of me.
What a difference three years makes
Three years ago, I hosted a very glum event for Tony Blair after Labour suffered a terrible defeat in the 2019 general election, when Boris Johnson won a landslide against Jeremy Corbyn. It was such a huge win that many thought Johnson would be in power for a decade.
Last night I attended the Tony Blair Institute’s Christmas drinks, and the atmosphere was very different. Labour is on the up again and the Tories look like an opposition in waiting. It’s extraordinary how Johnson tanked his premiership so quickly when he had it all — a big majority, the machinery of government at his disposal and all that support from rich and powerful friends. And let’s not even talk about the 49 days of mayhem under Liz Truss.
You can see why Labour is so chipper although a lot could happen in two years. But it wasn’t just team Red at Blair’s bash. Tory peer Lord Vaizey popped his head in and, on seeing former Tory MP David Gauke, quipped: “Jeez. This place is full of lefties.” Broad church?
