No matter who you are, how old you are, where you live or what you do for a living, I have a proposition for you. However, before I explain this idea of mine, allow me to fill you in on the background story.
Over the past couple of years, but certainly the last twelve months, life has begun to feel like a series of fast-moving weeks punctuated by term time and Hallmark Holidays. Some term-time holidays are a welcome break from the school run, others are so long it’s hard to hold down any semblance of employment. A hamster wheel I cannot jump off, I have no choice but to adhere to the school rhythm for a further eight more years; as for Hallmark holidays, we’ll come on to that later. Knowing I have to be in a city I cannot afford to live in for several years to come, leaves me feeling trapped, ironically knowing those years will fly by terrifies me in equal measure. Even now, as the kids’ schools have broken up for the February half term, Christmas days spent wearing pyjamas and eating chocolates and toast feel like yesterday.
The familiar ache of the passage of time - tentacles creeping beneath doorways, cat-flaps, gaps in the windowpanes - inspired my proposal to you. The unannounced ache felt worse during early motherhood, a time filled with the longest days and the shortest years where time stood still and raced past all at the same time. My youngest is now in her final year at primary school, and the eldest, fully teen-mode activated, is edging away. I’d always assumed this period of motherhood would feel easier, whatever that might mean. No one mentioned that the older the children get, the faster time moves. Time nowadays has only one setting: full throttle. A fast train I can’t board never mind drive, I’ve considered lassoing myself to its roof. Knowing me, I’d end up falling off and landing in a thorn bush. No longer living, just surviving. Does any of this resonate with you?
Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine’s Day, National Easter Egg Day then there’s that awful mash-up of a month where Halloween bleeds into Bonfire Night just as Christmas trees start appearing in shop windows. And back to the beginning we go, back to Christmas sarnies and Egg Nog coffees available to buy at Pret just as they’re selling out of Halloween-themed skeleton biscuits. A nation suckered into spend, spend, spend, whoops, my bad, I forgot the now very British celebration of Thanksgiving which is suitably followed by the mad dash-scramble that is Black Friday. This churn of consumerism is what made me go off catwalk shows. I used to pore over the shows back when fashion held more cultural currency than art as opposed to now when no sooner a ‘look’ is in store than it’s on sale. It’s not fashion I want to talk about; it’s our participation, or, rather, my participation in this mad ride. I cannot speak for you, but if you join me in this thing I’m yet to explain, I hope to get to know you better.
A week ago, timed perfectly to an upcoming term-time holiday (hello, tentacles) shocked it was already mid-Feb; I figured if I’m feeling this way about life, perhaps some of you have had similar thoughts. For the past year, my life has felt totally and utterly out of my control. Each day felt like life was happening to me, around me, over me, through me. I’d lost control over who I am and how I parent, how I maintain friendships and how I work. Passive in a life consisting primarily of working, parenting, and worrying on repeat, I’ve allowed days, weeks and months to steamroller right over me. By 6 pm, steamrollered flat to the point of frazzled (think Ken Dodd hair), in order to cope, I’d open a bottle of red. Intending to drink “one” glass, before I knew it, the bottle would be halfway gone, as would I. Every single night for well over a year, I’ve felt so anxious that an evening without a drink felt insurmountable. As for Friday and Saturday evenings, bring on the cocktails and more wine, but let’s kick off around 4 pm with a couple of beers first, yeah?
I’ve visited AA a few times in my life. The first time was around the late 90s, in New York, after a man I was on a date with offered me a line of cocaine. We were in a club, the music was really, really loud, I could barely see one foot in front of me, thanks to electric white strobes. Seated in the corner, my date waved his hand over what looked to be a folded up birthday card. Containing what seemed to be a small line, hard to tell given the card was as white as the line which was as light as the strobes, it looked small, so I hoovered it up. As my face pulled upwards, I rubbed my nose. ‘Ouch, that fucking hurt’, I shouted. ‘What the fuck!’, he screamed, trying to be heard over the music, ‘that was Ketamine! You were only supposed to take a small bump!’ For anyone who’s taken the unpleasant roller coaster to hell otherwise known as a one way ticket to a K-Hole, you’ll know what was about to unfold. Staggering to the dance-floor, I collapsed. At the sight of me on the floor, my date left leaving several men to pick me up. Thankfully, we were in a gay club and the leather-harnessed men had zero interest in a gang-bang with me. Somehow, I awoke in a loft somewhere in Manhattan, a gorgeous warehouse apartment decorated like a men’s locker room there was an actual bank of gym lockers along one wall. The sweet gay men had taken me home and popped me on a circular bed with red silk sheets in a quiet room decorated with sex toys. A mirror covered the expanse of the entire ceiling, hence why I rightly presumed I’d died and gone to heaven. I’ll never forget the kindness of the gay men whose names I cannot remember. Crawling out of bed, I waved ‘bye’, but they were too consumed by their twenty-strong Sunday lunchtime orgy to swap numbers. Sipping coffee at a nearby diner, no clue where I was, I found a phonebook. Then, I found a nearby AA meeting. Oh to be a fly on the wall in that room. I must’ve looked deranged.
Fast forward a lifetime to four days ago and a night out with one of my closest friends. ‘Let’s go for a local drink’, we’d agreed earlier that day. At the bar, sipping wine, as we played catch up with our lives, several ‘characters’ approached us. ‘It’s your energy!!’ laughed Jill, as a man named Carlos handed us two shots. She’s right. I’ve always been attracted to crazy characters, and they’ve always been attracted to me. We stayed until the bar shut, and because my kids are away this week, just like we used to do two decades ago, I went back to hers for a sleepover. Years may have passed but waking up with Jill plus our three dogs was a sweet reminder our friendship hasn’t changed. Unlike my capacity for alcohol. The following day I was so hungover I could’ve cried.
For anyone new here, three years ago I left my ‘perfect’ life. What do I mean, ‘perfect’? Well, let’s just say this: it was a life I’d aimed for, hoped for, and dreamed of. A lovely, kind, intelligent husband. A boy first and then a daughter. One dog, a cat and a gorgeous family home built to live in forever. At forty-six, I began to question this so-called perfect life. Feeling ignored and lonely in a house so full coincided with seismic changes. Firstly, I no longer needed to wipe my children’s faces, bottoms or clean their teeth. Secondly, there’s this odd time in a woman’s life no one had thought to mention (at the time) called ‘perimenopause’. Turning ‘peri’ equalled, well, at least it did for me, unbelievable horniness. Unbeknownst to me, my body had decided to have one last hurrah. As eggs popped out of geriatric ovaries, my weight dropped my skirts rose, my hair changed colour; some folks call this a mid-life crisis. I’d call it a sexual awakening. Given the fact no one mentioned this shit to me, I’ve written extensively about this ‘shift’ in my book.
For all of you who’ve followed my story, you’ll know the past three years have been nothing short of a shit show. I scampered towards the sunset (Soho?), all showy-offy with my brand-new svelte frame and a style change worthy of Scarface hoping for…. For? An answer to endless happiness? Lol. I scampered off towards the sunset (defo Soho) without a plan, and soon came a cropper. Not a late 90s style ‘a cropper’; thank God, no ketamine involved this time, but I did end up moving homes four times, losing a well-paid job, losing my mind, and sinking to depths I never knew existed. Almost two years since my divorce, I live to tell the tale. Hi. I’m alive. But I’m not living. I’ve been in survival mode which, I reckon, is why time is passing through my fingers like water.
If divorce were the first time I’d experienced real grief, I’d say, for once, I’m grateful for the passage of time. Time is a healer (there’s a reason why well-worn tropes exist). Time has healed but also strangled and I want to get my life back. This brings me neatly to my BIG idea. ‘Christ she’s really built this up; better be worth the 2,000 words it took to get here’, I hear you say.
For the next fifty days, I invite you to join me on Substack and Instagram for a practice I’m calling, FOCUS TO FIFTY. Here, I’ll write a daily journal whereas on Instagram, I’ll upload a daily video. Whether written or filmed, both content streams will reflect how I’m tackling this ‘steamroller’ feeling, this loss of control, this issue of time passing by so quickly I can’t enjoy the moment I’m in. Although I cannot provide a daily schedule right now, over time I’ll tap into experts in the fields of finance, coaching, health, beauty, fashion, fitness, wellness and more. When I say ‘wellness’, I mean fresh air, walks, good food and sleep. Let’s keep this real-life stuff real…
During FOCUS TO FIFTY, worry not, we won’t be taking up meditation (hats off to you if you can do that shit, I certainly can’t) nor will I be going “live on Instagram” with “shamans” from Notting Hill who can “cure childhood traumas upon receipt of your entire life savings”. Nah. None of that. Convinced Brexit happened thanks to the opposition not having the savvy to come up with a just-as-good-if-not-better zingy name, FOCUS TO FIFTY is fifty days of focus in the run-up to my 50th birthday. See what I did there?
If we start after half-term, say, Monday the 18th of February, that gives us the time to consider how we’d prefer to live our lives. Please note, I respect visualisation boards, but I don’t believe just because we cut out a picture of a yacht from Vogue and glue it to a piece of paper by the end of the year, we’ll be cruising around Greece with our new handsome husband as freshly torn from the pages of GQ. No. If we want something, we need to plan for it. If we want to control the fast-moving train, we need to work at it. As for yachts, I don’t want one; I want to catch my breath so I can enjoy my children and for them to enjoy me. I want to build a career in mid-life even though I’m supposed to be winding down. I want to save for my retirement even though I don’t have a pension. I want to crawl my way out of debt even though it’s so overwhelming there are nights I can’t sleep. I want to feel alive and not steamrollered. I don’t want to lose another day to yet another hangover. I want to be fifty and have a plan.
**Join me? When I say ‘join’, I simply mean you do your own thing in the background and if you feel like sharing, you can do so in the comments here or on social. This is your journey and there will be days when you can’t be arsed to do anything. Same goes for me, but this isn’t a competition with yourself, with others, and certainly not with me. It’s a realignment of ideas, thoughts and focus, something I’m not sure I can do alone.
I am definitely in, i am however over 50 but because i wasn’t in any state to celebrate my actual 50th year before last i am having my ‘fake’ 50th this year in September - totally with you on wanting to live a different life - this is a new chapter, 2024 has already been a shit show with my ex getting engaged only a few months after divorce came through - fuck if am ready to embrace a new life - in fact that was actually when a door closed for me. Cant wait to see what you post!!! x
I'm in. Or at least willing to follow along. I can relate with the endless consumerist and school term/holiday and work cycles. Happy to step off those wheels for a while.