Our fifties are a blast because we simply don’t give a damn

Good news: the Government has finally cleared up the confusion about whether or not over-50s will be locked down (or up, depending on your point of view) in the event of a second wave. It turns out we won’t be.

This comes as a relief not only for people like me, aged 53, with a family to look after, dogs to walk, a job to do, elderly relatives to visit; but also, I suspect, as a relief for the Government. Because had they decided to try to enforce such a strategy, my very strong sense is that they would have had a fullscale mutiny on their hands.

Because while the over-50s are generally law-abiding, community minded types, we won’t bite our tongues if something strikes us as bonkers. Which, frankly, that did.

But the main reason, I think, that so many people my age took offence to the proposal was this: we see ourselves in the prime of life, at the top of our game. Perhaps not in physical terms, but in intellectual and emotional terms.

As If on cue, a poll earlier this week underlined the point. of 3,000 people aged 50 to 59, 40 per cent said life was more exciting and fulfilling now than in their 30s. sixty-two per cent said they felt more at peace with themselves — and 58 per cent thought their 50s were the happiest years of their lives.

In other words, being 50 is fun. And the reason? four-fifths of the respondents agreed: they ‘couldn’t care less’ what others thought of them — so just got on with doing exactly what they wanted.

And that, my friends, is the key. Not caring what anyone else thinks. Knowing your own mind, and not being afraid to speak it.

for women in particular, this comes as a bit of a revelation. from an early age, we are conditioned to please — our fathers, our teachers, our partners, our bosses, our spouses, our children.

our hormones play a big part in this, of course. But most women in their 50s are either menopausal or post-menopausal. All those chemicals that make us predisposed to putting up with other people’s nonsense are dissipating. And one glorious day the hormonal fug clears completely and we realise we don’t need people’s approval.

suddenly we find ourselves saying exactly what we think and (shock, horror) doing exactly as we please. Like the other day, when I got home from work to find ten teenagers in my kitchen, courtesy of my son, who had seen fit to invite them over in my absence. It was like a Kevin and Perry convention in a Lynx factory.

An earlier incarnation of me would have been all anxious, apologetic middle- class mum about it. But 53- year- old me couldn’t care less. In five minutes they were sloping off down the road with some choice words ringing in their ears — and my son was very, very sorry indeed.

The good news is it’s only going to get better. or worse, depending on where you’re standing.

I shall leave you with the words of Jenny Joseph, from her wonderful poem, Warning:

‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple,

‘With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.’

No wonder they want to lock us all up!