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I look at almost everyone in a position of authority - doctors, teachers, bank managers, librarians - and invariably think they look about nine.
I’m shocked and appalled that anyone other than my children was born post Berlin Wall and Bros.
Queuing to get in anywhere is out of the question, and music in bars must be low enough to allow conversation.
Table service is preferable; clear access to bar and clean loo, a non-negotiable.
Less maturely, I become irrationally furious at all the obnoxious people allowed to live while my loved ones are stolen by cancer.
Despite my new found appreciation for the preciousness of time, I waste hours of the stuff on wholly irrelevant pursuits.
I have, for the first time in my life, stopped to consider the concept of “mutton dressed as lamb”.
I can digest a week’s worth of junk mail catalogues in one extended sitting, unfathomably intrigued by everything from equestrian wear to mobility aids.
Likewise, I can spend five hours on Google, researching exactly the right £3.29 anti-slam door bumper.
Otherwise, any week off in which I laugh, eat and watch films somewhere lovely with my partner, constitutes the holiday of a lifetime.
Having spent my teens, twenties and thirties feeling entirely certain of my every opinion, I’m now far more likely to say “I don’t know” or “I don’t think it’s that simple”.
I don’t yet act on it, but do occasionally catch myself in three clashing prints and wonder if I’m now less House of Holland, more Su Pollard.