'I would rather regret the things I’ve done than the things I haven’t done'said Lucille Ball and the time is now upon me to carry on where I left off before I entered the challenging world of child rearing.
As I write this, the last chick, without any fuss, has happily flown the nest, the toilets are clean, the washing machine is now enjoying a three-day week and for some inexplicable reason Mr D has started doing his own ironing and as a consequence that longed for luxury of ‘me time’ is now there for the taking. And to celebrate, here I am on my fancy new website, (courtesy of Ben Galley www.bengalley.com ) and thanks to www.emergents.co.uk for putting their faith in me, a revised and relaunched version of What Goes on Tour is in hand and the sequel Text me No Lies, almost complete. Exciting times.
The thing is I’ve been preparing for it for years, as when I was a kid I remember my dear old nan, who at the time was probably about 60, telling me how she still felt the same as she did when she was 20, it was just that the body wasn’t keeping up. Despite her daily routine of morning stretches and plenty of singing, dancing and gardening, she struggled with the secondary effects of asbestos, that hidden scourge of the post war years. She used to list all the things that she would love to have done if she’d had the resources, never bitter, but like so many women of her generation, she had unfulfilled dreams. Thankfully she lived to 84 but I’m sad that she never got to visit her old wartime friend in New Zealand. Sadly, my lovely mum never saw 50. Having struggled with MS for many years, she left this mortal coil suddenly at the tender age of 47. At the time I never appreciated just how young 47 was. If she had unfulfilled dreams, she never said but I never got chance to ask. I’m sure she would have had a few.
So with this in mind, I’ve been in training, resolving to get fit and stay fit enough to make the most of the rest of my time on Earth. I mean I could, realistically, have another fifty years available. The possibilities are endless. Inevitably there are concerns among certain
n quarters that I’m suffering some sort of fifty -something mid-life crisis; hiring a personal trainer, heading off to the Ibiza sunset and writing a “racy” book has certainly got a few tongues wagging. But do I care? Absolutely not. I’ve already ticked a few things off my bucket list and by writing a novel, at least I’ve left something behind. Quite frankly, I’d rather go out running down the mountain, whooping with reckless abandon, collecting experiences to write about, than shuffling quietly into my twilight years with not so much as a whimper.
An empty-nest I may have but I have no plans to have an empty mind.