Sloughs and furrows

It’s worse than I thought. Shirley Temple is 79 not 71. (See below.)

But, then, Joan Collins must be in her 70s and if ever there was a woman who put up two fingers (signifying both victory and up yours) then JC is it. Hallowed be the ground she sashays on. How does she do it? Some will say with surgery. No doubt that has helped keep in check the sloughs and furrows of outrageous time on her face and body, but I rather think much has to do with her spirit.

Although, just to be a little cynical, I do think fat-bottomed bank accounts help a lot: the masseur, the personal trainer, top-of-the-range hairdresser, couture clothes and adulation.

Adulation must help a helluva lot.

Esteemed boiled eggs

I felt odd when I read that Shirley Temple celebrated her 71st birthday this week. Why, it seems only the other decade she was pert and pretty with ringlets, and now she has wrinkles.

You need to have lived quite a long time in order to appreciate, and it’s a boring truism, but time it don’t half fly.

Okay, I don’t feel 20, not even 40 but I don’t by a long chalk feel any connection to becoming 60. Yet, there it is waiting for me. What’s more it is an age that so absolutely defines a person. ‘Cause once you hit 60, that’s it, you’re a pensioner. A bloody pensioner with a bus-pass and a shopping trolley (okay, I’ve got one of those already, but it’s from Top Shop). Next year when I make 60, will I begin to shuffle and to esteem soft-boiled eggs?

Blagging about blogging

I'm in a blog class...excellent teacher: Bill Thompson. I've already learnt a lot more than I knew which could have been written on the back of a box of matches; now it would take, perhaps, the back of a pack of twenty fags. That's progress.

It's a matured-woman thing with me that I throw my arms up in despair at tech stuff, but no longer. They are by my side and I'm determined to cope better.

Like a good wine?

There's a reason for the blog's title. It is that one day trawling around Rye Lane in Peckham which is in south London, I came across a sign in a shop advertising two vacancies. 'Wanted' said the sign, 'One Matured Woman' and underneath that 'One Gentleman'.

For a moment, a heartbeat long, I thought, gee, I could apply. Could but won't. It was a specialist Nigerian food shop and I figured I'd be too skinny for them. They wouldn't want to hire me. Still, I was happy that a business somewhere wanted to hire a matured (like a wine? like a cheese?) woman.

I guess I'm that: one matured woman.