50, married, divorced and still hoping for chances to party

Trudy has turned 50 and is still searching for the meaning of life, just like when she was 21. By Christine Manby

(Illustration by Tom Ford)

And so I turned 50. How did that happen? How did I get so old? Back in 1995, when I’d just turned 24, Pulp released their biggest hit – “Disco 2000”. Before most of us had ever seen an email, let along started worrying about the Millennium Bug, it seemed certain that New Year’s Eve 1999 would be the biggest party of all time. But, I worried, would I even want to go? On New Year’s Eve 1999, I would be 28. Impossibly old, or so I thought. I’d probably even be married. Surely it would be unseemly for such an ancient crone to join any millennium knees-up?

When the year 2000 rolled around I was not married and neither did I feel that old. Though I was beginning to worry that I might be forever left on the shelf. Jeez. If I’d had any idea that 21 years later I would have been married and divorced, that I would be 50 and still searching for the meaning of life... And more importantly, still hoping for chances to party. #notdeadyet

I’ve spent most of this year cycling between denial and resignation regarding my upcoming half-century. Also, I’ve felt more than a little resentment that so many months of the last two years of my forties were spent in lockdown. I was supposed to be on a beach.

But the day before my birthday, I was brought up short. Culling paperbacks from my “never to be read” pile, I came across an old copy of Travels with My Aunt. I’d never finished reading it. I’d used a photograph to mark the point where I gave up (almost certainly due to the birth of Facebook rather than any shortcomings in Graham Greene’s writing).

The photograph was taken at a party. Someone’s 30th, I think. That’s about how old I was. I’m dressed in a black sparkly number (sleeveless. Oh how I wish I’d appreciated those arms), and I’m crouching down next to my friend and former colleague Rhona, in her wheelchair. It was a great night. I didn’t know at the time that it would be the last night out Rhona and I would have together. She died after a stent fitted to relieve her congenital hydrocephalus caused a fatal infection. But when that photograph was taken, we were both sure we had many parties ahead of us.

Bloody 50. My 24-year-old self, would have said, “Kill me now”. My 49 and 364-day-year-old self realised what a privilege it is to get old. Rhona would have celebrated her fiftieth in style. It was time to get over “being ancient”.

Unlike my friend Mary of the Cabaret fancy dress do, I’d told anyone who cared to ask (all three of them) that I didn’t want to have a party. I made them promise there would be no surprises either. Fortunately, I’ve recently changed my locks so there was no chance I would let myself into my house one evening, dressed like a dog-walker and picking my nose, to discover my entire family sitting on the sofa in the dark. But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to do anything on the day itself, so I was glad when I was asked on a completely random date to fill the void.

My first date with Robert was a blind date, arranged by my mother and his, who had become firm friends on our trip to the Lake District at the beginning of September. It was coffee on Clapham Common and it went swimmingly. Swimmingly enough that ahead of our second date I decided it was worth getting my hair done. And my nails. And my first bikini wax since 2015.

Perhaps it was the bikini wax that jinxed it. While I was still in the nail salon, waiting for my polish to dry, Robert sent a text. “Just had a message from test and trace. Think it best if I self-isolate until I can get a PCR test.”

Did I believe him? I wasn’t sure. I knew that when it came to dating excuses, “test and trace” was the new “non-specific family emergency”. But I thanked him all the same and told him I hoped the test was negative.

All dressed up with nowhere to go, I had a scheduled birthday Zoom call with my mother and brother’s family. My brother’s children sang “Happy birthday” without lifting their eyes from the phones. Their family dog was much more enthusiastic. Or perhaps he was howling in pain. My goddaughter Conservative Caroline and her parents called to sing too. Caroline was disappointed that her birthday card had not arrived because she’d tucked it into the same envelope as a copy of her letter to the prime minister on the subject of stamping out Tory sleaze. Then Liz texted to wish me a wonderful evening with Robert.

“Not happening.”

“What?”

“Test and trace.”

“Balls,” Liz wrote back. She should know, having used the excuse to get out of Mary’s party, book club and Zumba all in one week.

I sent her a photograph of my nails. “I even paid extra for the Seven Day Colour,” I lamented.

Liz understood the pain of paying for unnecessary grooming. Ah well. I was just settling down for an evening of On the Verge on Netflix when I heard the letterbox clatter. A bit late for the Royal Mail. I picked up the card on the doormat and recognised the handwriting. There was no stamp. I pulled open the door.

“Glenn!”

He was halfway down the street. He turned to come back. “Happy birthday,” he called.

“You’re back from Devon.”

“I’m visiting my mum,” he said. “I would have texted but I assumed you’d be busy, this being a big birthday and all that. You look nice. Are you going out?”

I told him the saga.

“Test and trace,” he snorted. “Idiot. I’m going down the pub. Come with me?”

“Well, I shouldn’t waste a blow-dry and new nails, should I?”

I got my coat.