By Marie-Anne Leonard
I don’t much mind getting old.
I mean, I’m not bloody happy about these sodding wrinkles that keep springing up, creating paths across my face that make-up falls into and make me consider losing my thick black eyeliner on an almost daily basis. I wish I were perkier looking, but I did have a few drinks last night. And I just don’t ping back like I used to.
Everything is slowing down as year after year my cells degenerate and my skin and bones become that little bit shabbier and well-used. I diet constantly and slap on more serum, moisturiser and primer in a vain attempt to fend off the inevitable avalanche of time. It’s never enough. And I’ve begin to wonder whether it’s worth sacrificing fun for looks – kicking the prosecco and serenely yoga-ing my way into my forties.
My husband, on the other hand, is more attractive now than the day I met him. He has a solid handsomeness, borne of parenthood, responsibility and professional success. He takes care of himself, but he doesn’t really need to worry that much. Time is good to him. As a couple, however, we have reached the point where, from here on, in the eyes of the world, we are looked upon differently.
Eyeliner always helps.
The Cocktail Hour 