“The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are We“
If you know this song, then you might relate to getting older. I am in my bath, enjoying sitting in my own dirt, singing away merrily and reflecting on the events of last evening through hazy, hung-over eyes. Self note: Drink less as one turns over the years or suffer the consequences with pills and lots of face paint to hide the injuries.
I had gone out with three girlfriends for lunch in London. We had agreed on pre-drinks at midday in the bar. I arrived early and looked everywhere for my friends, but no one looked familiar. Through my contact lenses, the glass walls reflected everyone’s image quite clearly. I found a seat in the corner and indulged in my first large vodka tonic in a gin glass with a slice of lemon and a slice of orange. Yes, I am fussy.
I like to think of myself as well groomed, with bleached blonde hair and full of anti-ageing products. I wear high heels because they do make me look taller and thinner. My three expectant (not in the family way) friends are also well put together. If someone asks our ages, we don’t announce it proudly and quite blatantly lie. I usually am early 40s, but in reality, I should probably say I am seventy-five and have had some great face-work done. If you dare to guess a woman’s age, go low; the lower, the better.
I manage to break away from my pool of booze and glance around the room, recognising a small group of older ladies in the corner again. They were slightly overweight, in church-going frocks; two wore glasses and had coffee. The young couple in the opposite corner were still comfortably chatting, and the middle-aged businessmen in suits appeared quite pissed. Where were my friends? They were now 15 minutes late. I would take one more glance around the room and then use my mobile device to contact one of my tardy friends.
BOOM, it hit me. The three old birds in the corner were my bloody friends. Fluffing down my embarrassed feathers, I abandoned my young drink and headed to join the girls. Lunch was great and quite boozy.
Looking into the now blurred alcoholic viewed reflection of myself in the glass, I congratulated myself on how much younger I looked than my friends. Honesty is simply not on my future agenda. Can I invite you to my forty-third birthday party?
Soozi’s Grown Up Life 