Being in the Sandwich generation leads me into absurdity.
To my children, I seem “unutterably old”.
At least, that’s what Perran said when I asked if I might go with him to a Mr Scruff gig.
I try not to tell too many back-in-the-day stories as I hate to see the incredulity on their faces.
I can’t possibly have been the girl who danced in the street during a thunder storm, or who experimented with home-made fireworks and set off all those fire alarms.
Yet to my parents, I am forever young.
When my mother leans on my arm for support, she doesn’t realise that my back hurts. She thinks the walking stick in the boot of the car is a spare for when she forgets hers, not an aid that I use when I go walking.
But there are advantages to being in my mid-fifties.
At my age people are reported to be at our most content. We have achieved some of our goals and relinquished our most unrealistic ambitions.
Better enjoy the view from the top of the hill while I’m still at the summit.