Fifty Sense

The mighty Marks and Spencer has come to my rescue. Thanks to the divine intervention of St Michael, I will not be forced to wear orthopaedic shoes at the birthday dinner next weekend. Instead, a pair of turquoise strappy wedges (wider fitting) will transform me from dumpy frump into streamlined sylph – blink and you will miss me as I cha-cha-cha past, waving my glass of bubbly aloft. So what if my little toe hangs over the edge of the shoe like a sea-sick sailor? You can’t have everything.
Unfortunately, in my euphoria at scoring a pair of glam shoes, I forgot all about buying a birthday present. What do you get a fifty year old man for his birthday? He doesn’t drink much wine, so the ‘gift which says you truly care’ is not an option. There is a trend for buying ‘adventure days’ which allow the birthday boy to hurl himself around a racing track or parachute out of an aeroplane. But I reckon if you’ve managed to get to fifty without a coronary, it doesn’t seem very wise to tempt fate. A relaxing spa day is out of the question (this is no metrosexual male we’re talking about here), since I think any attempts at massage could result in an unseemly brawl. As for those enormous novelty balloons - I’m not sure what the attraction of a large balloon might be for anyone over the age of eight.
It appears that fifty-year-olds are no longer allowed to shuffle quietly into the realm of the old git, swathed in a baggy, threadbare cardigan, and clutching the crossword. Now they are all completing triathlons, or clambering across several thousand miles of coastline dressed in lightweight gore-tex.
I can remember a time when the term ‘male grooming product’ referred to a pair of nasal hair clippers, and that was it. Apparently today’s fifty-something male has the choice of applying anti-wrinkle cream or a face mask after shaving, rather than just slapping himself around the chops with a handful of Brut. It’s all very confusing.
As I am running through options for presents, I am aware that I am running out of time to buy anything. Slowing me down (thankfully) is this large glass of Bon Cap Syrah (Ocado £7.99).
This South African organic wine is a recommendation from my mate Peter at The Pinotage Club. H is more of a Shiraz fan than I am, but I like the peppery spice and liquorice aftertaste of this one, even if it is rather dry. It has certainly made me determined to try some of the Pinotage that they produce, if I can get hold of any.
As for the 50th birthday present, I’m still at a loss what to get. It’s all very well sashaying along to the dinner in my new shoes and party frock, but I don’t think that clutching a gift-wrapped Old Spice soap-on-a-rope is going to be appropriate, somehow.

Property Porn

Most days, I drive past a lovely but rather run down house, which is being extensively renovated. I could not afford this house even when it was a complete wreck. I read about it when it was for sale a few months ago in one of the local ‘property porn’ publications which I consume frequently but furtively. I know its wrong to look at these magazines, but I just get drawn in, even though I always end up feeling ashamed of myself afterwards. I have also found recently that I need more specialist material to get the sort of thrill that I had when I first started flicking through them out of curiosity.

Anyway, I have been watching the progress of this renovation, and the house is nearly complete. The builders on the project are a group of burly middle-aged men who had decided to remove their T-shirts today and reveal the full glory of their bowling ball bellies to the outside world – or maybe I’ve got it wrong and they are all seven months pregnant.

As I drove along in a very slow moving line of traffic, with the car window down, I had a chance to marvel at the new roof, ogle the freshly painted windows, and lust after the side and attic conversions. I don’t think I was drooling. Well, not excessively.

My fantasies were rudely interrupted when one of the builders, obviously a stranger to the salad bar, shouted at me from the scaffolding: ‘Getting an eyeful, love?’ and winked.

There really was no suitable response. I either had to let him continue the sublime self-delusion that he is something of a demi-god, whose rotund, hairy torso is worthy of worship, or confess my sad, carnal property lust.

I opted for the middle ground, and told him I was just admiring his bay window.

Tonight, I am drinking a glass of Tesco Finest Howcroft Estate Shiraz (£7.99). H is more of a Shiraz fan than I am, but this is a good smooth one which tastes of raspberries.

I am hoping it will help to dispel the deepening concern that I am now of an age where builders on scaffolding think I am lusting after them, rather than the other way round. Perhaps attack is the best form of defence. Tomorrow I shall drive past the house and yell at the assorted builders’ bums: ‘Look at the arse on that – you could park your bike in there!’

Maybe I should just have another glass of Shiraz instead, and try to keep my dignity intact.

You Lost Me At ‘Hello’

I was watching my daughter play hockey this afternoon. If you could call it that. To the untrained eye, it looked like a dozen mini Grim Reapers, scything away at each other. For most watching parents it was an exercise in flinching, and fretting about likely dental bills. For those with private health insurance and the number of a good plastic surgeon, it offered the prospect of an early introduction to corrective rhinoplasty.
Halfway through the match, I noticed a rather good looking father arrive and join the opposition spectators. With an almost audible cinematic whoosh, I was transported back over twenty years, as I realised I knew this man from university days, knew him really well in fact (although not in the biblical sense). I went over, said his name, and gave him a hug. He was speechless, but that may be because I omitted to introduce myself, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember who I was. We talked for a few minutes about jobs, families, children, old friends, and gradually he made the connection with the person I was twenty years ago. As the second half of the hacking match started, I started to wind up the conversation, leaving him with the honest assurance that he “hadn’t changed a bit.” There was a dreadful, lengthy pause. Then in a manner worthy of Hugh Grant, he stuttered and said “Gosh” and “Well” several times, but couldn’t quite bring himself to return the compliment. I limped away.

Now I’m back in my kitchen, licking my wounds and the last of the Shiraz.
I’ve decided that the reason my old friend thought I had changed so much isn’t because two decades and three children have left me decayed and ravaged beyond recognition. No, I think he was shocked that I had morphed into a respectable mother with a ten year marriage and a cliché-ed hairstyle. The last time he had seen me, twenty years ago, I was drinking cider and CherryB and sporting my favourite ‘Tight Butts Drive Me Nuts’ T-shirt. Thinking about this transformation, I am rather shocked myself.

They Think Its All Over

Went to watch my son play football for his school this afternoon. He had a few weeks of glory in the D team, before the pressure of such dizzy heights got to him, and he was relegated to the E’s. I must say, he seems to have dealt with it better than some of the mothers whose sons have made a similar slide from the A’s to the B’s.
There is something very heartwarming about watching small boys play football. They are completely untroubled by concepts such as tactics, strategy, or indeed skill, preferring to all cluster around the ball like enthusiastic bees, hacking away indiscriminately. It took some of them half the match to realise which direction they were supposed to be running, so you can imagine the confusion after half time, when they swapped ends.
Its now several hours after the event, and I’m relaxing with a big, generous Wolf Blass Shiraz (Tesco £8.49).
I spent the match standing on the touchline with a cluster of spectator mums. Those in heels were trying to pretend that they weren’t really sinking backwards, and every now and again, one high pitched voice or another would warble a few words of encouragement.
The opposition goalie wore gloves that made him look like Mickey Mouse, and had the terrified expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights. When our boys managed, by pure fluke, to chip the ball past him and into the net, it was difficult to know whether to clap, or to run on and console him. We opted to clap, partly to restore our failing circulation.
Once there was a score on the board, the father of one of the visiting team started prowling up and down the touchline. After a while, he could contain his frustration no longer and started yelling at his son, issuing commands like ‘Tom! Mark your own man’ and ‘Move to the left, Tom!’ He gradually worked up to such a torrent of orders, that the poor child kept missing the ball completely, he was so anxious to follow his father’s instructions.
When I was at school, I happily played netball for eight years without my parents ever attending a match - I probably would have been mortified if they had ever turned up. These days we are called upon to witness our children’s every move - they can’t shake us off. I’m sure little Tom would have been absolutely fine today, if it hadn’t been for his father’s ‘support’.
Maybe if I’d had a testosterone-releasing Intrinsa patch, I could have run up and down the touchline too, either barking at my own son or propositioning the alpha Dad. Neither prospect is very appealing.