On the whole I don't look back too often but just now I am remembering old birthdays.....
Getting to be forty was bad. I didn't feel old but passing forty felt as though a line had been crossed somewhere.
My husband worked in Manchester and on the day we booked lunch at our favourite restaurant. I waited for him at our table and eventually a waiter appeared with a message. He couldn't get away from the office...sorry.
I opted not to eat alone but somehow my worst fears were realised...I was old.
Going to the shops later I wanted to buy something outrageous but nothing caught my eye. Eventually the best I could do was to buy some bright red nail varnish. When my husband got home I had painted every nail about my person.
It made me feel better, not quite so old....fighting back a little....
I can't remember my fiftieth but achieving 60 was memorable. My husband had died two months earlier. To say I was miserable was an understatement.
My girl friends took me out.
We went to a lovely restaurant called "The blue strawberry" it was very trendy in Essex and they showered me with presents....a pink pension book cover, woolly socks, a hairnet, dozens of age related gifts. all wrapped beautifully....the rest of the diners were entranced and so was I ....we laughed an awful lot and I shall always be grateful to them.
By the time I reached seventy I had been priested and was still finding my way around the various churches on the Roseland. I have no memory of the actual day!
Becoming eighty is no fun at all. I have told everyone that it's not a cause for celebration. I am going out to lunch with three very kind friends. Cards are now appearing and so are flowers...the house looks wonderful.
All I have to do now is plan my ninetieth! Pass the purple nail varnish!
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