I’m a writer who is sinking into the world of serial blogging instead of finishing the four or five novels I”ve got on the go; this is a strange life indeed and it gets better every day – interesting!

 

I think I might have fallen into middle age when I was 40; I became sensible overnight – it was payback for all the years of sex, alcohol, and trashy high-heels. I’ve been flat-shoed since I was 35 while my idiot pal stumbled around Gateshead in the snow, falling in and out of her multi-story footwear. Now I’m going to be 55, and am soooooo the sparkling, intelligent, unruffled and together older woman. I love just raising my eyebrows at awful individuals that twenty years ago would’ve driven me to emotional outbursts, passion even. I have enjoyed every decade I’ve passed through and have never felt the need to lie about my age. It all depends on priorities; my friend (of the high-heels) has a really bad problem with self-esteem – and she’s slim and attractive. I’m fat and bursting with laid-back enthusiasm for life, and death. I’ve come to the conclusion that in order to feel happy with the outside body you have to live happily within it; I wasn’t always like that – I’ve wished most of my life away.