I was born middle-aged – and now I’m loving every minute
Last night I found myself Googling “deadheading lavatera”. I was just looking at the one thriving thing in the garden and the question of how to prolong the flowering season – a phrase I didn’t even know I knew – popped into my head and sent me scurrying to the internet. The answer is that it’s worth doing, though I should have started weeks ago (we all should have! Who doesn’t want to prolong a flowering season?).
But at least now I will be able to reap a bounteous harvest of seed heads, should the mood take me (and I think it might). And then I bought tickets to Glyndebourne’s open gardens day to give me something to look forward to in September, and a light cardigan to see me through ’til winter.
Middle age is officially here. And I’ve never been happier. We all, I think, have our natural age. Some are good at being teenagers, some are naturally lively, curious and ambitious enough to suit their twenties best, and so on.
My mother’s friend Jenni always used to say, “That child was born 35,” and she was out only by eight years. It turns out I was 43 all along. This is my time. I always wanted to stay in, not go out; to talk to one or two friends at a time properly rather than chitchat at parties; go to bed early with a good book five nights out of seven, and now all my friends do, too.
My forties so far – especially if this cardigan lives up to its online billing – are a very heaven.