WHEN I'M SIXTY-FOUR
Ageing like a fine wine, Fiona Armstrong is ready for the next chapter of life, even if that means hanging up the old party shoes
Fiona Armstrong is ageing like a fine wine and is ready for the next chapter in life
Another milestone comes and goes, and normally no one would notice. But unfortunately, because I once worked in national television, they continue to put me in the newspaper birthday columns.
I’ll be the first to admit that these landmark birthdays are hardly headline news. A one-liner that appears alongside a list of infinitely more famous folk isn’t groundbreaking.
Some time has passed since my heady days, and I know there are those who open the paper, scratching their heads...
Fiona whatshername? I think she read the news once upon a time. Or was she that actress who appeared in that film? It is true. Believe it or not, in the past I have been mistaken for Roger Moore’s very own Bond Girl, Fiona Fullerton. I should be so lucky. I have also been announced on stage as Fiona Bruce. Again, what an honour.
Recently I was stopped in the street and asked: ‘Excuse me, but didn’t you used to be Fiona Armstrong?’ Perhaps I did. Although sometimes I wonder. Nevertheless, with a national publication revealing every secret, there is no hope of staying alluringly timeless.
As usual, the steady stream of texts flow in from friends and old acquaintances, either to congratulate or commiserate on another year on the planet. A university pal wonders how, with our mis-spent youth, we ever managed to get this far. A work colleague tells me not to worry and offers the kind view that I look ten years younger than the date that is stamped on my birth certificate.
DD (darling daughter), meanwhile, cheekily suggests that the time may be coming to think about a bit of botox to fill out the cracks.
Then my old mate, the journalist Hunter Davis – he of the brilliant Beatles biography – emails me with an amusing attachment. It is a copy of a song, handwritten by the musical maestro himself. Paul McCartney and the Fab Four could be singing it just for me...
‘When I get older, losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine, Birthday greetings, a bottle of wine?’
I have to admit that the chief and I do work our way through a few glasses of red on the night. He serves up with a couple of rib-eye steaks.
Charred on the outside, pink in the middle, accompanied with mushrooms and grainy mustard. It is too delicious, and the decadence continues as the brandy truffles from the birthday box of chocs are unearthed from the present pile.
All in all, it is a very pleasant evening. But then, everything said, this has been an agreeable month. The thing about time is you can neither buy it, nor stop it. I do my bit to try to stay youthful by swimming half a mile three times a week, working my way through morning press-ups and sit-ups. I walk the MacNaughties too, and can regularly be found in the garden borders, spade or clippers in hand.
Yes, despite the advancing years, it is still something of a life on the run. But back to the birthday. Among the presents is a pair of furry slippers and two AGA covers with amusing doggies on them. The MacGregor gives money towards the polytunnel that I hope to buy in spring and fill with home-grown veg. My lovely mother does the same.
Slippers, AGAs, gardens. It suggests entering an older life. And you know what? It’s one I rather like the sound of, so I am just going to embrace it.
‘Send me a postcard drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely what you want to say
Yours sincerely, wasting away…’
If you haven’t got it by now, this is your last clue…
‘Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four…’
“I’ll be the first to admit that these landmark birthdays are hardly headline news