Yesterday was my birthday. 42 years old. 42.
I can't believe I'm 42!
That's only 8 more years to the Big 5-0 and only 18 more years to my pension.
How depressing!
I've been going all out this week to stem the tide of middle age and am now sporting a new haircut (shorter, bouncier and - hopefully- more youthful) and extremely white teeth (birthday bleaching to get rid of decades of caffeine and red wine abuse).
But, even if I've become a bit of a bah-humbug about these things, at least the girls still enjoy the occasion. Olivia came bounding in yesterday morning clutching a swathe of homemade gifts and a card with 42 hugs and kisses because, as she gaily informed me: "You're 42 today, Mummy!" "Yes, darling, so I am" I replied, smiling weakly.
I unwrapped my next present: a short, sexy nightdress from a girlfriend with great legs and still-pert breasts. Another bout of depression. My chicken legs and sagging knees will not do it justice.
Then Isabelle comes to the rescue in the way daughters should. "Wow, Mummy!" she said. "That's lovely. See, someone other than Livvy and me thinks you're still beautiful!"
