AROUND my kitchen table today we carried on the "the day that I knew I'd lost it" conversation (see yesterday's entry).
I can't remember the day I lost it, but I remember the day I realised I was getting old. I walked into a shoe shop and rejected a pair of the most beautiful high-heeled strappy sandals in favour of a comfy pair of shoes.
At least, I consoled myself, I hadn't bought slip-ons on the grounds that they were easier to put on than strappy sandals.
Age has also precluded me from buying other desirable objects of apparel. The thought of wearing a thong makes my cheeks red - and not the ones on my face.The ubiquitous shrug is another garment I have caressed longingly in the shops. I even slipped one on but decided a little mohair top that stopped short of my nipples was not a good look. I am aware, before you remind me, that a shrug isn't supposed to stop short of your nipples, but look, I'm no longer a perky young thing so my nipples aren't quite so high-riding as they once were.
Ugg boots made me look like a disabled Big Foot and in skinny jeans my legs looked like two over-stuffed salamis. Last year those peasant skirts were everywhere. In mine, instead of looking like a skittish gipsy girl I more closely resembled, well, a peasant. And one of those short stocky Eastern European women who's been eating too much borscht and dumplings.
So I've given up trying to look fashionable and have settled for looking Bohemian instead - a bit like the woman in Jenny Joseph's Warning poem: "When I am an old woman I shall wear purple and a red hat which doesn't go and which doesn't suit me."
I don't yet have a red hat but I do have a purple cardigan. I will reject beige in favour of clashing colours, book a safari rather than a week in Cleethorpes and drink tequila rather than sherry.
I intend to grow old disgracefully.