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Its been too long since I sat in my study (i.e spare box room) and devoted time to writing down my inane thoughts.  There  are many reasons, none of which are really excusable. I can however blame the influence of the following:-

1. Brexit  – this will be used as an excuse for everything over the next 40 years. How we have managed to get into such a cluster f***k as the country appears to be in, is astounding. When I was much younger, I believed that my elders and peers were far more intelligent, informed and articulate than I was – now, as I approach my half century, I realise, too late that most people are winging it or are just in fact really very stupid. The handling of Brexit is a fine example of people fumbling through, desperately trying to save face/their own arse whilst managing to completley mess things up….I would suggest ALL politicians should sit a ‘I’m not a fuck wit exam’ before becoming an MP
2. Trump – much as I don’t like what he stands for, what he says and what he does, the comic timing and sheer absurdity of the situation, is really quite distracting… I have spent some time working abroad recently and having CNN as the only English-speaking channel, I have spent too many jet lagged hours staring at this orange face and plasticine hair…. real life Simpsons ….
3. The weather – really? I live ‘up North’ we’re not used to these temperatures for such a sustained time. My hair now has the regular appearance of Leo Sayer (how much serum can one women use?) and I’ve run out of decent fake tan (I can recommend M&S Autograph tan – it’s the only one that doesn’t make you smell like a digestive biscuit). As a Brit, I have become obsessed with the weather and how it’s affecting my garden (yellow grass is fine but a wilting clematis, that will never do!). I have also discovered that I have the beginnings of the dreaded bingo wing, which is often on display (I need to lift those shopping bags more…). But worst of all, I don’t own a decent summer wardrobe….. I can’t wear my ‘holiday clothes’ (yu know, those clothes that are more beach/bar/laid back middle age, still thinking I am in Ibiza style). have you tried to find a pair of shorts that aren’t a pair of knickers? It’s either M&S huge leg, thigh coverers or Top Shop pants ……
4. The f***g menopause, combined with point 3 and the fact that I appear to be melting most of the night and walking around the house, scaring the cat and the neighbours when I realise I’ve left the kitchen blinds up…..
5. Prosecco, this is related to point 3 and 4. Trying to keep cool, relax, enjoy the weekend, get over a crap day at work, celebrate (anything!) I have consumed a small Italian vineyard over the last 6 weeks….

And so I will endeavour to write a little more often,  after all how long can this heat wave last ? (lets not think how long Trump can last?….. a sobering thought ).

In my head I am still 18, I still am not quite sure what I want to do with my life, I’m certain that I will be successful one day… Mr Bloody Perfect will suddenly appear, I will have numerous glamorous holidays in far flung places and I will retire, fulfilled and blissfully happy in some gorgeous cottage covered in wisteria and with a rescue dog, cat and Mr Bloody Perfect… there’s still time …. SMACK back to reality

What the hell is happening to me? According to the vast amount of literature I consume on a regular basis I am ‘peri-menopausal’, I’d like to call it, a bloody distraction and something that happens to other people. After all I am only 49 and one third… When did I appear to gain a chest that would look appropriate on the front of a ship in the Spanish armada? I used to be proud of my boobs, pert, not too big or small and with the added benefit of not being spaniels ears. So when my current bras had started to fight back and dig into my sides like a f…g hack saw, I decided it was time for a bra fitting……

Unaware of bra fitting etiquette, I stood there in my bulging bra as the lovely woman in M&S looked at my chest. Yes, “it’s definitely too small”, at this I pointed our that it was so small I actually had what appeared to be 4 boobs. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I also realised that my stomach had gained the appearance of very thick porridge. Now M&S, a quiet word, most women don’t scrutinise their naked/semi naked bodies too closely and in this light, I found bumps and lumps that I didn’t know I had, or could be medically possible…This is both disturbing and for M&S potentially loss making, as I wanted to get dressed and run to the food hall for a ‘Dine in for Two (all for myself) to get over the shock. Which I am sure isn’t as margin rich as flogging me a number of new bra’s.

However I had to wait for my new bra’s, so I was faced with staring at my ‘muffin top’ (who named it that? more of a blancmange over hang) and then finally what was handed to me can only be described as ‘old lady’ bra’s, built for comfort and support, certainly not built to attract Mr Bloody Perfect or to be worn with any semblance of a strappy top/sassy little number. Nope, these were designed to be accompanied by a twin set or a ‘nice’ blouse. So whilst I wrestled with the enormous hook and eyes (great for my failing eyesight), the hotness decided to descend. As I drew back the curtain to reveal my celibate bra, with a red sweaty face and porridge podge, I realised that this could be viewed as a mid life episode that should ‘only happen to other people’. The ‘lovely lady’ and I decided that despite the enormous cup size and industrial straps, that these were the best option. So now I am the proud owner of new bra’s that look like something a Catholic priest could wear on his head… but at least its preventing the spaniels ears…. for now.

 

Having consumed an entire vineyard over the winter months and not exactly ignored the Kettle Crisps, I now feel it’s the right time to start really looking after myself. Various menopause experts also state how this can help, but who wants to be hot and hungry?

Diets –  the 5:2 diet isn’t for me, life’s too short to spend 2 days a week staring at Jaffa cakes and watching the hours slowly pass, until you can engage in the natural act of eating… otherwise Dickens would have referenced fasting days in a Christmas Carol and Shakespeare would have had Hamlet, procrastinating other his flax seed..  GI diets (too complicated), Atkins (really?), weight watchers (works for some of my friends, but all I can see is Matt Lucas..), Jane Plan (I’ll send you soup and a bag of lettuce for £50 a month), the list is endless and if it works for some people great. I just cannot diet.

So I am following the ‘get off your arse and move a bit more diet’ (GOYA) – which enables me to eat ‘sensibly’ whilst burning slightly more calories than a mouse on a sun lounger. So how’s it going?…. I desperately tried to talk myself out of going to the gym tonight, hoping the traffic was too bad on the way, that I needed to go food shopping, any excuse that I could think of, didn’t work. The traffic moved quickly and I knew I had an M&S salad waiting for me in the fridge, with a use by date screaming at me (and being from Yorkshire I wasnt going to let that go to waste!). So I found myself at the gym. Now in my 20’s I loved going to the gym and planned my social life around that…. how times (and body shape) have changed…

Pulling on my Nike running tights (high-waisted and very flattering, managing to hold in the stomach, or at least move it upwards), I then discover I haven’t packed my gym bra and vest…. great an actual excuse, not to exercise! However I managed to find a crumpled t-shirt which had been living in my gym bag for months… So as I launch myself onto  the treadmill, I realise that I look like a middle-aged bag lady that has emerged from under a hedge. My fellow gym members appear to all be in the 20/30s and Instagram ready… I am more ‘photo booth acceptable’…. 40 minutes later I leave, sweaty, red faced and smug, as I genuinely felt better…. I will never be posing for my latest Insta fix at the gym (my Instagram consists of pictures of the cat and various glasses of Prosecco or Merlot), but I will try to go ‘at least’ twice a week…

I am also trying HIT, this I leave to the confines of my living room. As jumping up and down whilst listening to a squeaky voiced Joe Wicks telling me there’s only ‘another 20 reps’ to go, is not a pleasant experience. I now realise that I am the female version of the tin man, with as much mobility and flexibility. So, touch my toes? only when I sit down to paint my nails. Press ups? even the kneeling variety makes me keel over like a drunk. Star jumps? With scaffolding for a bra, this is still difficult and when did my stomach start to have a life of its own and move separately to the rest of my body? The Plank? Again wearing a loose t-shirt enables you to look down at your stomach for 30 seconds and realise that the Pilsbury Dough Boy  could be your twin. Still after 20 minutes my heart rate goes up and the legs are screaming at me to stop, so I am going to continue for as long as it takes for me to get into my Victorian bathing costume in September…..

I had planned to ‘blog’ (or is rant more relevant?) over the weekend, but ‘stuff’ got in the way. Having returned home from work on Friday evening, with only one thought on my mind… that first glass of Prosecco, that Fizzy Friday moment when you can finally relax in the knowledge that you have the whole weekend ahead.

However, things never turn out how you expect, and I found the love of my life, laid out on the landing, having difficulty breathing and clearly not himself. So what do I do? Google the symptoms (every symptom on google leads to death by the way…). The conclusion? Heart problems. I just knew that he wasn’t well and needed to do something quickly… ‘The Bloke (my other love in life), insisted that I was indeed over reacting, as  ‘he’s a cat’ (bet you thought I as callously describing him laid out on the landing..?). Twenty minutes later we are at the vets with a distressed cat and more distressed owner… Injections and tears later, we returned home to return the next day for further injections.

I really didn’t appreciate how much my large (some would reference him as fat, though I prefer a ‘large mixed breed moggy’ as we have no idea of his parentage), ginger rescue cat meant to me, until then. He’s always been around, listening to my ranting about various things, from the state of my neighbour (who appears to only wear a velour dressing gown at weekends, nothing else… striding out on his mobile phone…keep that image with you….), to how crap Coronation Street has become and how it was so much better with Bet Lynch and Hilda Ogden (apologies if you have stumbled on this blog and have no idea who I am referencing.. ). He’s been that consistent presence in my life that only close friends and family can better. And since I chose to follow my ‘career’ I no longer live close to my family (a mistake that I will rectify as soon as I can) and my closest friends are scattered around the UK, I realise that I could become that  stereo ‘mad cat’ lady…. though that is so gender sensitive, is there such a reference to ‘daft dog’ man or ‘bonkers cat bloke’? Nope of course not…

So Fizzy Friday was put on hold for this weekend and I found myself in the role of cat nurse, trying to dispense tablets into an 8 kilo cat…. It is said that you should learn something new every week… that’s my new skill for the week…  Next weekend, how to go into M&S and NOT buy a Dine in for £10…..

Sunday afternoon and for once I am on my own… Even the cat has decided to visit one of his many other families or he’s gone hunting for mice, which would be a bloody miracle as his hunting instinct appears to be non existent, unless his prey can barbecue itself and present it to him on the patio…

I took a day off work this week and did a ‘ladies that lunch’ day, with a close friend, who I only see once in a while. Obviously this was a liquid lunch, with the first ‘coffee’ turning into 2 glasses or fizz (which included raspberries, so one of our five a day..). People watching is one of my favourite past times and last week was Olympic standard, as the ‘real’ ladies were lunching and offering a veritable ‘all you can eat buffet of opportunity’ for me and my friend to observe.

We are at the age were we are beginning to realise that those ‘laughter lines’ are no longer ‘fine lines’ but huge crevices that are making me look more like the Joker, (minus the purple suit!) and should we invest in anti-aging treatments. So we sat and observed and wondered if we should invest in botox, fillers, chemical peels, snails entrails and whatever else we need to turn back the years. Now I’m not sure that a shiny face with a permanent look of surprise is really my look and judging by some of the women, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Pete Burns (Dead or Alive.. literally!), it’s not something they should have invested in either. So we concluded that we dare not invest in it, quite yet…. (keep with Nivea…)

Before we drank too much fizz, we wandered around a few of our favourite shops (which isn’t many, as where the hell do you shop when you hit your forties? – but lets save that for another day!). So we left the wine bar (handily situated in Selfridges) and found ourselves in the designer concessions… (on our way to the loo of course!). Fashion, really? now I am no Trinny Woodall (though I would recommend following her on Instagram). But WTF? No matter how much money I had, I don’t want a Gucci sweat shirt with a sequined cat on the front for £950,  nor do I want to buy what appears to be a green plastic Balenciaga bin bag for £645 (evidently it’s called a Bin oversized water-repellent shirt..), proving that money does not buy you taste or common sense…

As the afternoon progressed and we became more and more like a cross between Patsy and Edina from Ab Fab and the Fat Slags from Viz, it became apparent that no matter how long its been since we’ve seen each other, spending time with friends is the best anti-aging solution, money cannot buy. And there’s still time to consider Botox …

 

Bank Holiday Monday and its a choice between Judge Rinder, eating the remains of the Easter egg or trying to kick start my exercise regime, so that I am ‘fabulous at 50’ or indeed ‘Beach body ready’ (I presume that phrase doesn’t mean a reference to whales..). However there are other easier solutions as I found in M&S a few days ago… now as I didn’t invest in a pair, I can not recommend or disapprove. However, who actually thought that cellulite reducing tights were a viable idea?

The fact you are wearing tights in the first place is an indication that your pins aren’t perfect (whose are?) or you are a practical person who wants to keep warm, with little worry of anyone ever seeing your cellulite (tights and passion are rarely  related..).  So these magic miracle workers reduce your cellulite and lift your bum? What happens if your arse is the size of a stuffed couch? Where would it go, would you suddenly find your bum over flowing into the waistband of you knickers, do you actually wear knickers with this engineering solution to massive, orange peel arses? Is there a hoist below your buttocks that lifts? All these are questions that I now feel the need to be answered. So I’m off to M&S in the hope that these discounted magic tights are still available… who needs the gym…

This has taken a while…. that’s an understatement, I have procrastinated over this for a number of years (embarrassingly so). With various ideas and numerous themes, I have quite plainly ‘faffed about’ (I’m from Yorkshire, so that phrase is quite common).

My blog is quite simply an observation of the ageing process and the mis-conceptions of what its like to be approaching 50, not married (with the delightful title of spinster!), career orientated (and that brings its own challenges), fashion conscious (where should I shop?) and with a passing interest in food and fitness. This is not a blog for tips on any of the above, as I continue to discover the realms of advice on ‘how to approach middle age’, this is simply my take on being 49 1/4 years old.

The reason for this blog, is simply that I couldn’t find anything that I could identify with. Google ‘being 50’ and there are so many links – Saga, fashion at 50, fabulous at 50, empty nester, divorcee, widow… the list is long and yet I just couldn’t really identify with any of these sites. So here it is… not ready for cardigans…

I love fashion, but can no longer buy anything in Top Shop (except a bag or a pair of gloves…), I’m not really for JD Williams (sorry Lorraine!) and I am beginning to wonder what on earth Zara have done to their sizing.. so I can share my insights on not looking like a 16/61 (16 from behind and 61 from the front), without spending a fortune.

I wear make up, yet I cannot obsess about the latest primer, BB cream, MAC lipstick or foundation that will make you look 20 years younger.

Fitness, I love to keep fit, when I can manage to find the time, which is actually defined as, ‘when I can be arsed’. Life gets in the way and as I get older the complexities of the human body and how it works (or doesn’t!), start to invade my life. When did I start making huffing noises when I sit down or stand up? So the need to develop a workable fitness regime is paramount. I cannot hit 50 and be frumpy with an arse like a bag for life packed with groceries….