Tempus Fugit

When I was little, people who were older than me would warn that when you were grown-up, time would fly. “Nonsense,” I would think as even a week would seem a very long time.

Now I am a grown up of course I realise those people are right. The weeks, months and years fly by: weekends, it seems, go quickest of all.

Even the age of 30 seemed very old indeed when I was a child. My mum, like most of my friends’ mums, had their children in their early 20s, so at the age of six or so our mums were just hitting the big 3-0. So, the fourth decade seemed really ancient. I really wasn’t looking forward to my 30^th as it seemed so old – but of course there was nothing to worry about.

That’s not to say I don’t feel old sometimes. Earlier in the year, Radio 1 was playing in the office – it wasn’t long before I was grumbling “What’s that racket?” and felt compelled to change the station to good old Radio 2 with its selection of music from the 1970s to the current day. Just don’t get me started on Steve Wright’s non-stop oldies at 3pm, especially when the ‘oldies’ happen to be from the ‘90s. They’re not oldies, that’s proper music!

I even feel old when I go out. When I go out, I like to find a pub where you can have a catch-up, maybe some decent music playing unobtrusively in the background. A few weeks ago, I was out with friends in London. The trouble with the country’s licensing laws is that you’re just getting warmed up when time is called, so we had to venture to somewhere with a late license. That somewhere was heaving with people aged around 10 years younger than me and music blaring so loudly it was uncomfortable on the old ears.

A weekend with pleasant weather doesn’t bring me pleasure just because I can get out and enjoy some fresh air; it also makes me happy because it means I’ll be able to hang out the washing. What a good little housewife I am.

I’ve been going grey for about 10 years; my hair is naturally very dark and the grey is a pure silver, creating a stark contrast. I refuse to go grey gracefully, but being unable to afford the now-monthly trips to the hairdresser that became necessary for root coverage, instead I colour at home. With my first efforts, the bathroom looked as though I’d murdered someone a la Scarface: liquid matter was scattered around the tiles, the bath, the towels...but now I’m quite the dab hand, if I say so myself.

Even as I seem to be hurtling towards middle age (gasp!),

at the grand old age of 34, I feel the best is yet to come. Cheesy moment alert: I feel happy with myself and I’m where I want to be in my career (any upcoming restructures notwithstanding). 

Tempus fugit. Just make sure you make the most of it.