The broad wing of time

Wednesday, 30 April 2014

You look THAT much older 
than fifteen years ago.

Edward turned thirty the night we got our first Labour Government in 18 years.  It kicked off a period of almost-American hugging of strangers, singing in the street and crying in public.*

None of which I realised at the time, as I had got fantastic tickets to a lovely little play and sold my soul for a seat at the most fabulous luvvies restaurant for post-play deliciousness, expensive cocktails and shameless, libellous eavesdropping.

At the interval, having sat with a smacked-arse face through the first half, he announced he wanted to go home.  I had wondered how a dyed-in-the-wool Conservative would deal with grinning Tony and the un-English leaping and whooping, so I was not too surprised.

I suggested we went to the restaurant early and drown his election sorrows.  To my surprise, he declined, and mooched off along the river, glumly and silently ignored the pile of presents, and went to bed.

It turned out that he was gutted at the end of his youth.  Having previously skipped about in a state of Peter-Pan-dom, he could not believe he was a grand old man of thirty.  It took days for him to even realise that Labour were in power.

I will spare you the carnage that was his 40th.

He is 47 tomorrow.  We have a pile of hidden presents, some stashed fizz should he wake up with a smile and some very strong coffee if not.  The children know not to mention numbers and to exclaim hourly at how much younger he looks than last year.  I have planned nothing more elaborate than a walk on the beach with the dog.  We might stop for a piece of cake if the storm clouds keep away.

A new Government is, it seems, totally beyond any of us.

*Of the British public, you understand.  Not Edward.  In a million years.


  1. Hello Elizabeth,

    How we empathise with Edward. We stopped counting long ago. Mathematics was never a strong point for one of us any way! And now we barely give any recognition to the passing years and we stay away from looking glasses, especially ones illuminated brightly. Indeed we stay away from anything illuminated brightly, our whole apartment has not one central light!

    But, what a night that was when the Labour government was formed and Tory rule was broken. We stayed up all night for it and cheered as the counts came in. Still, if we had been thirty....which we were, sadly, most definitely not.......then we are sure that drowning our sorrows for reaching such an ancient age would have taken precedence.

    47 sounds good to us......

  2. He's a baby. A tadpole. Tell him he hasn't begun to tap the joys;).

  3. One of the secrets to a happy life is always believing you are young at heart, at least that is my belief. Now if only I could convince my husband, whom I swear was an old biddy by 18, long before I knew him. We are the same age, by the way.

  4. I once read that when asked if he had any regrets an eighty year old man replied," Yes, thinking I was old in my sixties and seventies ." So tell him to buck up, there's plenty more acomin'.

  5. Oh, tell Edward to get real. We're all getting older and so many people are freaked out by the natural aging process that I've found lying up is the best way to go. Skip the surgeries (this is Texas)! Be brazen! That's what I do. I rather enjoy being the 63-year-old yoga teacher who can do handstands and looks not a day older than 60. (I'm 58.)

  6. The best is yet to come (if you don't hide from it!)

    The Arts by Karena

  7. Edward should be pleased he's not married to me. I wrote about my husband's 50th birthday in the local paper. Photographed his helium balloon too.


Please leave a comment if you can be remotely bothered - anything you have to say is valuable and I absolutely love hearing from you all. Elizabeth