I was in the shower (shake that image from your mind, especially if you’re eating) when it occurred to me that, in less than two weeks, I’ll be a proper writer. A proper writer?
When I reached into the cupboard for my coffee mug this morning, the contents of the shelf told me how much I’ve changed. The cups didn’t talk (I don’t live in a Disney animation), but they did make me think about how different I now am from thirty-year-old me:
I am fifty-years-old and I feel I have been reduced, but not in the way you might think. I have simmered for five decades and I think, at last, I have achieved my desired concentration. I am thick (waist-wise, anyway), rich (in every way that matters) and, even if I do say it myself, really... Continue Reading →
I have a new sense of purpose and, since my preconception was that I should be settling down with my knitting as I approached 50, I wondered why. Ok, I still prefer my slippers to towering heels, and need a seat with a back, but I’m energised and ambitious at a time when the world... Continue Reading →