Hello gorgeous ones.
I seem to have taken an unexpected mini blog break. It happens sometimes. Here I am pottering about in my little uneventful life, and three week have gone by. Even the photos above are rather out of date. I uploaded them last week, and that's as far as I got.
I'd like to be able to share deeds of high adventure and excitement. But it's all same old same old here, I'm afraid. It suits me fine of course. But I do wonder how I am able to engage you all in what is my five hundredth post, when the most outrageous thing I've done is to start using coconut milk in my morning porridge. Well Ella swears by it, and my vanity would love to believe that if I use it too, I'll capture some of her youthful beauty. If she told me to eat dirt I probably would at this moment in time. I'm staring down the barrel of my forty sixth birthday, and it's not sitting at all well with me.
It's actually not a looks thing, because quite frankly I'm not arsed about that at all. I think it's the fear of turning invisible as I get older. The other day I was in the book shop in town. There was a perfectly pleasant young chap behind the counter, and we struck up a conversation about favourite authors, and personal recommendations. It was all very amicable. And then it happened. The shop door opened, and in walked a much younger version of myself. And I was immediately cast out. I went from interesting to invisible in three seconds flat. The pleasant chap behind the shop counter turned all of his attention to this young slip of a thing. Smiling and flirting and whatever. And I no longer warranted merit. It sucked.
And I thought to myself that Nora Ephron was totally spot on. It was my rite of passage into that weird time in a woman's life, when she is no longer young but not yet old. She is slightly invisible. And it's not that I have any desire to be conspicuous. I have no desire to try and stay young and hip and down with the kids bollocks. I've done my partying. I've no desire to carry on. There's no way I'm popping on a pair of hot pants, or those jeans with the rips at the knees. The world can do without that image seared onto their retinas. I'm just not prepared to fade away just yet. I'd quite like to morph into a Helen Mirren type. A woman who is not afraid of her age. A woman who is still vibrant and valid. A woman who is comfortable in her own ageing skin. In short, my kind of woman.
So I've decided that come the 26th March, I will not go quietly into the night. I'm not going to roar either, because it's a waste of time frankly. You roar, and everyone else hears moaning. And that's not for me. I moan enough within my own four walls, and nothing ever comes of it. So, I am going to pull my green Dunlop wellies over my middle aged calves. I am going to pop on my practical coat. I am going to stride across the beach, saying hello to everyone I pass. In short, I shall continue along this path of mine in much the same way as I have always done. But I shall do so secure in the knowledge that I refuse to turn invisible. Because I defy anyone to ignore a woman walking with her head held high, smiling about nothing in particular.
And if that fails, I shall bribe them with chocolate.
Oh and I shall continue to write these daft process on the page posts, that I refuse to edit for fear that it all becomes over-polished and essayed. I shall tell you that, even though it's more to do with sheer laziness, than any real desire for congruence ;))
Edit: I am very late in reading and responding to all of your latter posts. Please forgive, and bear with. My computer doesn't like me, and my phone died this week. xx