Prune

Seems like I have reached that time of life where I look in the mirror in the mornings and think, "Surely not".  Despite face creams, exercise and fresh air, facials and all the rest of it, my whole body seems to have drooped into a limp, disappointed slump of middle age.

I suppose this might be connected to the fact that I sometimes feel like a limp, disappointed middle aged woman  -  but I hate it. All my features are fading into sepia, so drained and washed out that you can hardly notice I'm there without at least a smear of lipstick and mascara to point you in the right direction. Yet I am so full of life, chock-a-block with ideas and urges, blood hot and busy in the rich reds and purples of my arteries and veins. On the inside I am as fresh as raw meat, as brightly hued as a jungle bird. My inner landscape is not the grey of a November Monday but greens, purples and yellows, the roar and splash of waterfalls, the searing orange lava of volcanoes.

I want to laugh, to shout, to run in the rain, roll in the leaves, tumble into bed. I want to sweat, to tremble, to bite, to curse, to sing. I do not want my film to fade to grey, I want full-on action, right to the credits. I want to die with my boots on, and preferably my suspenders and basque as well.

Meanwhile people around me are giving in, giving up, or giving themselves over to the temptation to become a modern-day vampire. As if drinking the kisses of younger women will be like supping at the spring of eternal youth. (I don't think this works. The physical contrast is so visible that for neither of you to remark on it becomes a burden. And you cannot find something on telly that you both enjoy, to entertain you in the inevitable "in between" times that a younger man doesn't need).

Don't write us off, these faded autumn leaves of women. We are smart, and funny, and sexy, with the joie de vivre of the last-chance saloon. I'm not going gently. No way.