‘Tis the season.
All aboard people.
The year is skidding sideways to a spectacular close, through a staggering line up of end of year concerts and presentation days, school fundraisers and festive drinks (and thank you drinks and goodbye drinks and what-the-hell-we-made-it-to-midday-Wednesday drinks). I’m not so much leading the charge really as flailing along behind it, one foot caught in the stirrup and my skirt up over my head.
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.
It was 1996. The new boyfriend and I were taking a break from our London jobs and were holed up in a cosy bar in Prague, smoking Camel cigarettes and writing feverishly in our notebooks with the kind of earnest intensity that only twenty-somethings can get away with. New Boyfriend even had a fountain pen (hey it was the nineties). Massive Attack was probably playing on the stereo.