Tomorrow I turn 43. Ordinarily I’m not one to broadcast my birthday like this but on the eve of tearing the wrapping off the chic new polka dot blouse that will epitomise my 44th year, I felt some words on getting older were in order.
Welcome to the wee hours. That strange disembodied patch of time after the kids have gone to bed and the house is finally quiet, otherwise known as ‘your time’ – if you can keep your eyes open long enough and your hands off the wine.
To be fair, this used to be when I did my best work. 10pm was my magic hour. I was a card-carrying, candle-end burning night owl, meeting tight deadlines after heroic all-nighters and then backing it up the next day with nothing more than a shower and a double shot (sometimes espresso).
My mum sent me this photo the other day.
That’s her on the left. I don’t know when it was taken but she looks young; happy and carefree. Barefoot on the beach, no husband or kids just yet. On the threshold of her life, dreaming of travel abroad, maybe art school in Paris or studying the Italian Masters in Rome. A bright shining girl.