Heavenly Beverley : The Inevitable (and Occasionally Hilarious) Consequences of Ageing

A tragedy has unfolded before my eyes. I have fought the good fight. I have resisted the winds of change with all my might. I have executed my best King Canute impersonation. I have tried my very best to cling to my resolve. But, unfortunately, and sometimes side-splittingly, I have failed in my personal crusade. I am turning into my parents...

When we were very young (apologies to A.A. Milne), age was an entirely irrelevant thought. I used to believe nobody lived past thirty. School terms seemed interminable. Holidays were looked forward to with reverence and every second was cherished. Then came work or TAFE or university. These parts of each day were often endured, whilst the enjoyment of evenings and weekends was the reward. I attended night school to learn everything from touch typing to pottery to creative writing.

Children added further dimensions, quite separate from just the usual suspects of sleep deprivation and disorganised daily mayhem. I joined a number of committees and organisations, most of which met in the evenings. I remember carving the day into pieces - housework, interests, appointments and the care load of being a parent of young children.

And when I reached thirty, I was staggeringly disappointed. The aura of wisdom and knowledge and maturity failed to drape over my persona. I didn't feel smarter. I didn't necessarily understand the punchlines of jokes. I was still skinning my knees and smacking my head. And my goal of bike riding continued to elude me.

Forty provided a breather from feeling totally inadequate. Empowerment through knowledge increased my confidence. I continued to fight the good fight - for my children, for myself and for the greater good of the autism community. I still seemed to be able to juggle all my roles. I was dancing as fast as I could.

Fifty found me in love with Michael, with Beverley and with our future. And a subtle changing of the guard. Prescription drugs were creeping into our regime. All our shoulders needed grease and oil changes. I discovered I no longer bounced back after a physical catastrophe. Standing on tiptoe on the very top of ancient wooden steps, a metre fall onto concrete broke my ankle, bruised my bum and shook my confidence.

Then came Michael's near-death experience. We added hospitals to our growing list of places we visited far removed from the pleasure of our Goldfields excursions. Our trips to the Big Smoke began coinciding with detours to the specialist of the moment, blood tests and various scans. Whilst, my morning drug taking thankfully plateaued, Michael's grew into a stupendously impressive pile, all of which had to be swallowed.

The results of middle age and beyond? We find ourselves discussing medical conditions, diet and our latest resistance exercise programmes. Ye Gods. We all have arthritis somewhere, dodgy guts, diabetes, tinea, high blood pressure, cholesterol and racy hearts. Those of us who are women also have menopause thrown into the mix. My feet have been masquerading as hot water bottles for fifteen years.

And we have slowed down. We find ourselves exhausted after an action-packed day in the Big Smoke. We dislike having to juggle more than a couple of tasks in any given day. We love the spontaneity of nanna naps when we can sneak one. And late night partying...increasingly a pipe dream.

Aging has added a curious mix of intolerances. Michael loathes traffic, lawn mowers, unnecessarily idling cars outside our house and early rising. I frown at small screaming children, I hate injustice and I gauge my day in terms of lower back pain.

Yet, there are great advantages. I no longer care very much about keeping up appearances. Slob days are a joy. I often waltz up the street, my hair unbrushed with a hat on my head hiding the hairstyle by powerpoint. I dress for comfort, rather than style. I love elastic. Having said that, I am also the grateful recipient of gorgeous clothes from the divine Miss George. So, I can frock up for the Gallery or other social events.

And we giggle and hoot and roar at the hilarious. A flight bound for Dusseldorf ending up in Edinburgh. Anything uttered by Billy Connolly. For a reminder of younger days, a sketch by Michael McIntyre. Animal antics on Facebook. Turning the hose on each other on a stinker of a day. An unexpected rip snorter of a fart. Gossip with good friends. The Problem Child, Pirate Parrot, Madame Cat and Nervous Nelly who are our substitute offspring. Spontaneous banter at Stretch and SLAB groups, apart from the usual spectacles of zombie walking and monster bellowing.

Laughter has become an integral part of our lives. We seek out like-minded people. We do not take ourselves seriously. We always look for the funny side of any situation.

However. I do have my limits. The second I ask about the timing or components of the Evening Meal, just shoot me. Until my dying day, I hope to continue with my usual script, which is "Dinner? When I work that out, I'll let you know!"

Aah - the joys of ageing...Exercising in the pool