Page 22 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

We didn’t notice because we were too busy shouting and dancing in clubs through the late nineties – getting knocked down, and getting back up again, dancing while shouting ‘lager, lager, lager’ over and over again, even though we didn’t drink lager. We were the original Bacardi Breezer generation. Pass me a couple of Lime Breezers and I was happy as a clam. We were the generation who grew up with girl power soundtracking our late teen years, and we believed Madonna when she told us that it would all be good if we just expressed ourselves.

But now, without realising how fast the years were passing, we find we’re hurtling towards fifty and standing in the shower with greying pubes, stretch marks, and boobs that are starting to sag. That and the knowledge that we have ended up with only our own company to look forward to. Of course, that last one is deeply personal to me – the divorcee of our ensemble who has realised it has been years since I last had sex, never mind made love. The phrase ‘making love’ used to give me the absolute ick but now I’d kill to have someone make me feel loved, and desired. Damn it, I’d settle for a grope behind the bike sheds these days – something to give me that flutter in the pit of my stomach and to remind me that I’m alive and not a dried-up husk of a sexual being.

We never did live in a fancy apartment or get sunburn on our boobs – the latter not necessarily being a bad thing. We clubbed a bit, yes, but those years went so fast it’s hard to pin down the memories of them now. It’s all become a blurry montage of sitting drunk on a pub toilet feeling the music pound through our bodies, and standing in taxi queues regretting the open-toed high heels we were wearing. It’s the hazy memory of the time we invented the term ‘chipulary burns’ when our post boozing sharing bag of chips on the walk home was much too hot. We used that expression a lot, and fondly, until we didn’t any more, because we got into the habit of blowing on every single bite of food instinctively in case it was too hot for tiny mouths. This would become such a part of our identity that we would do it even if our children were nowhere near… or grown up and moved out.

We had jobs – careers even – and got married and had children, and the sense of routine we so looked forward to rebelling against in our teenage years became a survival essential. We prayed – and still pray – for the boring days and for a lack of drama, because life teaches you that drama is rarely a good thing and at times it feels relentless and you wonder how you’re still standing.

But then you, as in I, get out of the shower and dry off, slipping into your comfiest pyjamas and woollen bed socks, slather on age-defying, criminally expensive face cream and don’t allow yourself to think any more about what is now firmly vaulted in the past never to be repeated.

You plod downstairs, order the damn pizza you’ve been looking forward to all day and you eat it while watching Casualty on iPlayer and the only thing you allow yourself to worry about is that that you seem to be developing real feelings for Ian the paramedic.

Before I go to bed, I send a quick message to Saul, feeling guilty that I was annoyed earlier at his fecklessness. I tell him I love him and I have his back. I tell him we’ll have a good chat about his finances when he comes home for Christmas. Then I message Adam and tell him that I’ve sent him enough money to cover the cost of his flight home too, even though I know he has already booked it. I feel guilty that I have given money to Saul and not him as well, so this goes some way to tackling that guilt.

I pop a message to my mother to tell her she is to call me in the future if she needs anything and she’s not to risk going out in the ice or snow. The last thing either of us need is for her to break a hip. I’ve seen it on Casualty before, older people breaking hips and that marking the start of the final decline. Of course I tell her I love her but I don’t tell her just how much I need her because it will only start me crying again.

Then I try to sleep, but it seems to be escaping me for now. There are too many thoughts dancing around my head and not one of them is conducive to a good night’s rest. My pizza sits leaden in my stomach and I try not to think about how many calories are contained in the average twelve-inch pizza. I left one slice – a really skinny one – just so I can tell myself I wasn’t a complete glutton.

It comes to me that I read once if you can’t stop your mind racing, it’s good to get your thoughts down on paper as at least that is them out of your head. It’s worth a try, I think, sitting up in bed, switching on the lamp and fishing in my bedside drawer for a pen and a notepad.

I figure if I’m going to do this I might as well do this right, so I scrawl today’s date at the top of page and then I begin. If a letter to my future self got me into this state, then maybe a reply can help pull me out of it.

Dear sixteen-year-old me,

First of all, you should know we go by Becca or Becks now. Mum still insists on giving us our full title of Rebecca. Or Rebecca Louise Burnside if we’ve done something to annoy her. (And yes, we are still a Burnside. We weren’t for a while, but we reclaimed it about ten years ago. That’s a very long story though – maybe best kept for another time.) Anyway, we dropped the Becki with an ‘i’ when we went to university to study journalism.

It was around that time we finally started drinking too, you’ll be relieved to know. Sobriety does come to an end for you and for a while you embrace the clubbing lifestyle. With Laura and Niamh. Yes, you’re still friends but it gets complicated a little in the middle. That’s another one best kept for another time.

I’ve read the letter you wrote me and placed in the time capsule. I’ve reminded myself of all the hopes and dreams we had when we were younger. I think maybe we were a little naïve…

Nope. I score through that last line. I don’t want to dash young me’s hopes before I’ve even got started.

The truth is that life kinda got in the way…

Nope. That’s not right either. I have to keep this upbeat!

Sadly we did not marry Fox Mulder but we do still have all our own teeth so that’s a win, eh?

I score through this line as well, and the rest of the damn page. I think of my list. Of how I’m already intimidated beyond words at the thought of stepping into the dating pool once again. How even a relatively small trip might be beyond my financial means just now and for the foreseeable while my children navigate university and the ridiculous expense that comes with it. I think of all this and I’m tempted to tear all the scrawled-on pages out and roll them up to use as kindling to set fire to the clothes of doom, but then I think of Becki. I think of how I could imagine her vibrating with happiness earlier and I know that I’d be letting her down if I give up this easily.

I know I’d be letting me down if I give up this easily.

I don’t need to write her a letter. I just need to give myself a good shake.

16

PHIL COLLINS AND THE GREAT TESCO MELTDOWN

Bleary-eyed and as grumpy as a toddler who’s got past nap time, I’m sitting on the sofa working on a really exciting article on ten ways to increase productivity in the workplace. It’s going about as well as writing the letter to my younger self went last night. What I want to write is ‘pay your staff more and stop ripping the arse clean out of them with extra demands’, but I don’t think that would fly with this particular client – or any particular client to be honest.

Instead, I’m trying to sell some sort of grown-up version of a reward chart complete with corporate wank-speak, which doesn’t so much as verge on condescending as have its own address on Condescension Street. Today’s client offers £10 meal vouchers, branded company merch and 25 per cent discount on their software as incentives, which can be won by their extremely hard-working and undervalued staff. It’s my job to make that, frankly insulting, attempt at employee motivation sound ground-breaking and aspirational.

This is not as easy as it sounds and I’m aware it doesn’t sound easy at all.

‘What do you think, Daniel? How would you recommend we promote a culture of positivity and productivity in the modern workforce?’

Daniel raises one furry eyebrow, yawns and rolls over, releasing a profoundly unpleasant dog fart in the process.

‘You’re a great help,’ I scold, before giving him a gentle pet and telling him that he is a very good boy and the best dog in the whole wide world. He responds by rolling onto his back and exposing his tummy to demand belly rubs.

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