Half A Century & Not Out

Forget the razzmatazz – turning 50 is going to be a date with the couch and a crochet needle.

My 50th is fast approaching. I’m not disturbed about the actual turning 50 – apart from the odd creaky bone, incontinence pad (note: only required when dealing with an occasional persistent cough) and comfortable shoe insert I’m ageing well, like a fine Shiraz. However, I’m disturbed about the interest shown in “the big day”. It seems everybody has a suggestion on how I should celebrate this momentous occasion, ranging from a dress up party for 300, a trip to Africa to go on safari to get up close with a lion (why?) and one of the more ludicrous – lunch with my “Top 50” girlfriends. Ludicrous because of the conversation I’d have with number 51 – “Look, I’m really sorry. Thanks for years of loyal friendship but you haven’t quite made the cut. I’ll put you on the waitlist. If somebody drops out you’ll be the next lucky lady to get a seat at the table.”