Blog · writing


Everyone knows, When a woman gets to a certain age, their birthday becomes kind of a touchy subject.
I know when it happened to me.
I was twenty-nine and stood at the checkout in the supermarket. The cashier was scanning my shopping and I noticed that when she came to a bottle of wine she didn’t look at me once. Not even a peep. That’s when it hit me. “Oh my god, I look old.”
I didn’t like the feeling. I mean, I’d have thought she’d give me a cursory glance, just to boost my confidence, but not a thing. She scanned the rest of my shopping and sent me on my merry way with my bags full and my ego burst. It was then and there that I decided I wasn’t going to get any older. I was twenty-nine and I was going to stay it… and that’s what I did.
I was twenty-nine for five years and no one suspected a thing. I even trained my children to say I was twenty-nine. They knew if they said any other age they weren’t getting any pocket money.
So, there I was, pottering along as a woman in my twenties, and quite enjoying it, until one day the subject of age came up and someone asked me how old I was going to be that year.
I gave my usual response, but suddenly one of my friends replied…

“Weren’t you twenty-nine last year?”

Like domino’s my carefully laid fabrication began falling down, all it took was one comment and suddenly everyone began questioning me.

“Yes, you were twenty-nine last year!”

“And the year before.”

“I remember that too!”

My wonderful friend who opened her mouth first, stood on the sidelines watching as I stuttered for a reply.
I had been caught. With no other choice, I admitted to the lie. However, this led to a new set of problems. As the accusations died, the new questions followed…

“So, how old are you?”

How was this a problem? You might ask.

Well, the thing is, when you lie about something for so long its easy to forget the truth and as my friends questioned my real age, I realised, I didn’t know it.
I wracked my brain, trying to remember but I couldn’t so I tried to work it out. Let’s just say, there’s a reason why I’m a writer, not a mathematician.
I was stuck. I had no idea how old I really was and not enough brain power to do the maths. With no other option, I turned to my best friend. I text her and asked how old I was.
After she had finished laughing and posting screenshots of my text all over the internet she finally told me my age.
That was it. It was out there. I’d admitted the truth and realised I might as well carry on with that path.

So, since then, I’ve told the truth about my age. Granted I did forget it a few times and have to text my friend again, but I’ve been honest and its this honesty that has led to the reason for this post.
I was at the day job the other week when the subject of age once again arose.
My daughter who works at the same place as me— being the little darling she is— nicely pointed out that I have a large birthday next year.
I was not impressed.
It was at this point that I began wondering, just what I could get away with at work. She is my daughter after all, If I was to slap her would it really be classed as abuse in the workplace?
It was as I pondered this conundrum that someone else I work with decided to ask the question…

“Oh really! Are you forty or fifty?”

I can honestly say, I no longer wished to slap my daughter!



Do I look fifty? I don’t think I look fifty!


I was not impressed.

I now feel older than ever and am scouring the shelves for anti ageing cream while I plot ways to kill that person in my next book.
I suppose that is one advantage of being an author… You very rarely run out of ideas and at the moment I have plenty.
Until my urge to purge is satisfied, I will simply use my new elderly status to my advantage. Perhaps boxes might be too heavy to lift and steps might be a tad high. After all, I wouldn’t want to hurt my self. What with me being nearly fifty!

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