OK, I may not be Angelina, or Madonna or any number of women that I could name, who, if they were about to hit sixty, would be preparing lavish parties, wildly expensive holidays, booking appointments with plastic surgeons and reserving weeks at a health farm. But that's all right, because I have just skidded from the fifties into a nice neat sixty, and if today is a foretaste of how it is going to be, I can highly recommend it.
I can clearly recall my 40th birthday while still living in South Africa. A group of friends and family gathered at our lakeside holiday house, and as the wine flowed, the music played and the pace of dancing picked up, the full moon laid a path of silver from the range of hills behind the lake, right cross the water to our doorstep. I can still hear the voices of a group of girlfriends yelling "It's Raining Men" as a few lonely university guys wandered along to join in the fun.
Where did the intervening twenty years go? Sadly my marriage of 20 years ended, but Jean and I met, and together we embarked on rebuilding a derelict farm in South Africa while discovering whether or not our budding relationship had a chance of survival. My children left school and training and went off on their various adventures and the situation on our remote farm became more and more dangerous. It was time to leave Africa, and we flew back to England where we spent three years trying unsuccessfully to convince ourselves that it was where we wanted to be. A chance meeting resulted in us spending the next five years in Florida following which, we decided that we had spent enough time dodging hurricanes and longing for rising ground, and we returned to our European roots and moved to France.
I woke up this morning and saw the sunshine peeping in through the wooden shutters, and taking my courage in both hands, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked for signs that somehow overnight I had left the 50's and slid into the 60's. No change. My hair still stood on end, there was the usual crease down one side of my face from having slept so well, and my standard outfit of pink furry slippers and warm dressing gown were hiding signs that anything had slipped any further south.
An exciting pile of cards with postage stamps from a variety of countries awaited me, and I had only just finished opening them when the phone started ringing. My children in Australia had phoned with messages of love and encouragement, and my grandson James who believes in telling it like it is assured me that "60 is pretty old Granny". My mother who had been so ill over Christmas phoned me with real strength in her voice and pride in her daughter who had travelled so many paths through life to get this far.
Jean, as always, was wonderful and the day was a succession of treats, not the least of which was a visit to our local boulangerie for delicious deserts. A quick check up with the doctor confirmed that I was in the pink, and although she didn't actually kick my tyres, Jean reckoned that I had passed my MOT and was good to go. We spent two happy hours gardening this afternoon and suspended the hammock between two of the bay tree trunks. I can see myself spending some very happy hours here with a good book and a glass of something cool.
So is being sixty scary? Absolutely not as far as I am concerned. Am I looking forward to 70? Not just yet, because with my track record, I probably have quite a lot to do in the next ten years. But for now, I am incredibly grateful to all those wonderful people who have helped me make it this far, and to all of those who have made this day so special.
