When I was younger (old habits obviously die hard and you have to forgive me for not automatically writing ‘when I was young’ — it’s just going to take a bit more practice), I used to find a particular greeting card amusing. It was a cartoon of a demented-looking career woman. She had one hand clutching her briefcase and the other was held up to her mouth in exaggerated dismay. The caption read: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to have children.’ It made me feel quietly smug as I’d remembered to have my three children by the time I was 30 and it was the career I’d opted to shove on to the back burner. I thought I had nothing much to fear at turning 50. It was just another number.
However, logging onto Facebook on the morning of my birthday quickly swiped the misplaced self-congratulatory smirk off my face. I discovered my laptop had been infected by a cruel little virus. Gone were all those pop-up advertisements for free laptops, extra mobile minutes and dodgy dating services. Gremlins had electronically age-adjusted and micro-targeted me (their new marketing demographic) overnight and replaced my familiar sidebar with chirpy ‘adverts of gloom’. Facelifts-in-a-bottle, herbal HRT, free gifts for the over-fifties, haemorrhoid potions and laser eye clinics were suddenly all reaching out to embrace me. I’d crossed the Rubicon. My 22-year-old son then announced he was off to have his Russell Brand-like locks pruned in readiness for my birthday party, only to return two hours later in a fury. He felt his new haircut made him look insanely young. I begged to differ.
‘I think you’ve never looked more handsome,’ I said admiringly.
‘I’m glad you feel like that Mum, but with all due respect I’m not really trying to appeal to middle-aged women,’ he replied gently.
I think it was at precisely this moment I realised that although I’d remembered to have the children and was just starting to get back the career, I’d completely forgotten to do any physical high — or even low — maintenance work on myself. I’d subliminally deferred ageing until another, more convenient time. Now my ‘tomorrow’ had numerically arrived it was too late to do much beyond grin and bear it, without even the false elixir of Botox.
One facet of David Cameron’s personality that I particularly admire and endorse is the unswerving trust he places in the importance of belonging to a family. Exactly what constitutes a ‘traditional family unit’ has inconceivably altered and mutated in my lifetime; yet like Cameron I remain steadfast in my belief that a tight family structure is the secret to a secure, well-balanced and happy life.
The older I’ve become the more I’ve appreciated my good fortune in belonging to a close, extended and multi-generational household. Families and friends understandably scatter as the years roll by, but if you’re lucky they never stray too far. All my personal chickens came home to roost on Saturday night as I celebrated my half-century. As I looked out across a sea of familiar, loved faces, I felt like I was enveloped by a huge patchwork quilt of life: my life. I was glad I’d forgotten to age artificially. I wanted the grin on my face to stretch from here to eternity. Freeze-frame.