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I find myself in the prime of life, although sometimes it’s hard to tell – tending to corpulence, sporting a pimple or three (are you still supposed to get those after puberty?), every day governed by routine (it would take a task force and organization on an epic scale to introduce any semblance of spontaneity to my life! Which kind of defeats the point.), the monotony of cooking dinner EVERY night. This is the prime of life?

Well, you’ll just have to imagine it.  Try harder.  Add Bridget Jones knickers. There you go!  But apparently, strictly statistically speaking, I am at my sexual peak (so there!).

I catch myself paraphrasing my parents, especially with my kids, “finish your vegetables, there are children starving in Ethiopia.” Or, “I can give you something to cry about.” In conversations with teenagers and young adults I inevitably end up using sentences that include “when we were your age.” I see them rolling their eyes, muttering something about having to walk to school and no mobile phones and 25 cents could buy you a coke AND crisps, and we didn’t have a TV, and rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

I realize I am uncool and my kids think I am ancient (well, they are both under 6 years old – EVERYBODY is ancient.  My only comfort.), and if I were to go to a nightclub, most people there would be thinking something along the lines of mutton and lamb.  On the other hand, I bring the average age down to 50 at the local bingo or quiz night – and I have to listen to the oldies “whenwe” chatter as punishment (and to polish my own). One of these days we will compare stories on who had the tougher childhood!

Under pressure from my daughter to perform in the “mom’s race” at her school this Saturday, I have considered training (for a very brief moment). Suffice to say, I didn’t win last year much to her disappointment. I thought I would give the “winning isn’t everything, it’s how you play the game…” speech – apparently that speech is for losers – of which I was one … but let’s not dwell on it. We’ll see how I fare this weekend.  At least she can collect some “whenwe” memories of her own … tortuous recollections of mom blundering over the finish line fourth – one up on last year.

I am ever hopeful!

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