It’s late Saturday afternoon, in fact it’s almost at that point where we can legitimately declare it Saturday evening and be done with it. I’m late writing this blog – even for me this is pushing matters right to the wire. It’s been a long, exhausting week of overtime, and trying to republish one of my books “Becoming Lili”. The book has merely had a bit of a freshen up comprising of a good edit, new font and formatting, and beautiful line illustrations and chapter heading graphics throughout. Simple, you’d think, and something that wouldn’t cause any undue stress and bother. I mean it’s basically the same book as it was, a book that has sat quite happily on Amazon for the past two years. But, as I get older, one thing I’ve learnt is that nothing is ever simple. However, it was finally done to my satisfaction and I could mentally tick another thing off my to-do list.

I genuinely had no clue what to blog about this week, not a glimmer of an idea twinkled in the dimmest recesses of my brain, and I half wondered whether to not bother this week. But… I made a promise, to myself and to you, that I would always write something. Then on the drive home, I heard a comment made on the radio that set me thinking – “You know you’re getting old, when…”

When what? What one circumstance or event has to occur before you throw your hands up and admit that, yes, you are old! I turned 52 last month, not old, not really, not by today’s standards, but not young either. Realistically I am well over halfway through my life, and there is a sneaking suspicion that it’s all downhill from now on.

So, what characteristics do I feel put me squarely in the “mature” bracket, rather than the “spring chicken” one? Well, for a start, sleep has become both more precious and harder to obtain. When I was younger, I could exist on very little sleep for days on end – I remember one amazing weekend when I practically turned nocturnal, but that’s a subject for another blog perhaps – and then binge sleeping once all the partying shenanigans were over. Exhausted, I literally fell into bed and slept the clock round. I can’t do that now. The ability to turn sleep into an Olympic sporting event sadly eludes me, and no matter how tired I am or how little sleep I had the night before, my body is awake and ready for action at 6am – plead though my brain might for a lie in, nope, insists my body, plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead, up and at it, there’s stuff to be a doing.

I also used to be able to sleep anywhere. Out with friends, we’d all pile back to one or other of our homes and sleep where we dropped – spare bed (if lucky), blow up mattress, sofa, sun lounger, duvet on the floor, in a chair, even the bathtub. But now, I will pay any taxi fare, walk almost any distance or overcome any obstacle to simply GET HOME to my own bed, and my own bathroom in the morning. Because that’s another thing that marks you as getting older, your tolerance of changes in routine and your greater reliance on bathroom habits.

I find as I’m getting older, I am both less concerned and more concerned about stuff. In my teens I cared deeply about everything – the planet, animals, social injustice – all would arouse my crusading zeal and I’d march, campaign and petition to right the wrongs of the world. Now, well, it’s not that I don’t care about those things anymore, because obviously, I do. It’s just… I have so much other shit to worry about that sometimes I am guilty of merely shrugging my shoulders, because really, what is the point of it all? Me getting my knickers in a twist won’t change a thing. On the other hand, my local supermarket rearranging all their shelves so I can’t find any bloody thing will leave me almost incandescent with suppressed rage. Storming round the shop, tight lipped and muttering, trying to find an elusive shop assistant so I can ask with barely concealed sarcasm – “Ok, I give in, where have you hidden the pasta this time?”

I think as we get older, small things are more likely to make us flip than big things, because it’s all too much sometimes. You’re running late, someone had used all the milk so you couldn’t have a cup of tea, every single traffic light was red, and then some ignorant arsehole cuts you up on the roundabout and you want to kill them, because it’s all just TOO MUCH. All the little things that occur to niggle and annoy seem to happen all at the same time, and always when you’re so busy you simply don’t have the time to be mellow about them.

You know you’re getting old, when silly stuff becomes more precious – your special tea or coffee cup, being reduced almost to tears because the shop is out of your favourite breakfast cereal, your comfy slippers, and don’t even get me started on your special pillow.

We get more tired, and we definitely get more set in our ways. In my pre-child days, I loved it when a friend would call out of the blue with an invitation to go and do something then and there. Now the very thought of it reduces me to a nervous wreck, screaming inside that – “no, I had my evening all planned, thank you very much, and I really don’t want to just jump in the car and go and see if we can find a nice pub to have dinner at” – but on the rare occasions this happens, of course, I swallow that voice down and go and always have a nice time, but there is that reluctance to break out of the norm.

You know you’re getting old, when you don’t have time to be ill. I remember last year, when we were on the final countdown to Christmas, waking with a scratchy feeling in the back of my throat. I literally threatened myself “I don’t have time for this!” swallowed a truckload of drugs and just struggled on regardless, because I simply did not have the time to indulge myself by being ill.

I’ve always loved my home, but as I’ve got older, I’ve found myself becoming almost hermit like. In fact, one of my fantasies is something happening that necessitated me having to stay at home for a whole month. The thought of being able to stay home and catch up on all the things I need to do, then have time to merely relax and read… bliss!

But most of all, I think us women know we’re getting old, when we open our mouths and our mother comes out! That’s when you know you truly are beyond all help….

Short blog this week, and no pretty pictures. I am sorry, but time simply hasn’t been my friend this week. Still, as ever, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments.

Enjoy your Sunday, and I look forward to chatting with you again next week.

Julia Blake