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The other night Himself and I were chatting about what we’d do for our 25th wedding anniversary. It’s not imminent, but I like to plan ahead.

“How about a cruise?” he suggested.

“Sounds grand.”

“Not wanting to be cheeky,” interrupted our Darling Daughter, “but would you consider a Saga cruise? You’d have no kids to worry about and they go to the types of places you two are interested in.”

“I’d be game, but will we qualify for Saga in, what, 6 years?”

“Sweetheart,” said Himself, “you’ll qualify next year.”

Excuse me? Next year? I don’t know about my husband, but there is no way I will qualify for Saga next year. Saga is for OLD folk, not for young people like me. I mean, I’ll only be…No! That can’t be right. I can’t possibly be 50 next year.

Yet I am.

Well, where did all the years go? I mean, I graduated Uni when I was 20 and that was only in 1982. That’s not too long ago. And hubby and I met in 1991 and we’ve only been together for …20 years.

Bugger me. I’m old.

But I don’t feel old. OK, there are many things I can’t do now that I could in my twenties, I get tired quicker and if I have to take something upstairs I wait until I have enough to do up there to make a trip worthwhile, but nearly 50? To quote a fellow Scot, there’s shurely shome mishtake?

What about all the things I was supposed to have done by now? Where is the best-seller? The photographs of me on horseback at Petra? The press cuttings of me accepting my Best Original Screenplay Oscar from the Academy?

And, more importantly, do I still have time?

Don’t get me wrong, I have achieved loads of things I never thought I would and I don’t really have any regrets, but it is scary to consider how little time is left to achieve what I dreamed of.

Or maybe I should just amend my dreams. I’m sure there’s a load of satisfaction to be had in domino championships…
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