“At 28, I hadn’t yet had the happiest times of my life”

I AM at a dinner party.

Over a very good meringue, we are discussing the business of ageing. All the guests are 40-plus. I think it’s fair to say that collectively, we’re in a fair state of physical preservation. Nevertheless, we are completely unambiguous examples of middle-age.

“I feel the same now as I always did,” someone says. This prompts a group-think; there’s a low, brief hum of consensus and then an eager chorus of “me too” erupts around the table.

“I mean, I feel exactly the same as I did in my late twenties,” she clarifies.

“How very strange,” I think.

“How very specific,” I say, “whereabouts in your late 20’s?”

“28,” she says decisively.

“28?”

“Yes,” she affirms, “28.”

“1993,” my husband says, looking at me, “we were living in the basement flat.”

I call to mind the basement flat. I try very hard to remember what I felt like in it.

I had half the number of children but if my memory serves me right, twice the number of parenting theories.

I was living in London and unable to envisage living outside it. If you’d told me I’d pack up and move to the boondocks of Ireland, I’d have looked at you funny.

I drove a Bedford van with no power-steering and a spiteful starter motor. I couldn’t tell a Sweet Pea from a Sweet William and I didn’t know my trees.

In 1993, the world still had my dad in it. He was still carrying The National Geographic and his specs around with him like I thought he always would.

In 1993, my body was plumper and heavier but more ornamental.

In 1993, we all thought our sister was “just shy, and obsessed with cricket”; my mum hadn’t yet nudged her into coming out by asking, “is it that you don’t like boys, darling?”

I didn’t know what it felt like to face a health crisis, unravel like a ball of wool and then knit myself back together again — or find that there’d always and forever be a few dropped stitches. I’d yet to discover that the best mascara is the most expensive, the best concealer cheap as chips. I didn’t really know that marriage was a living, changing thing, not an unalterable state, or that there’s no exemption for anyone when it comes to having to work at it.

At 28, I didn’t know how to do a good lamb shank, or clip a hen’s wings. Didn’t know what good friends my friends at the time would become, and my mother-in-law still made me nervous.

I hadn’t yet become the willing target market for products containing collagen. Hardly read the newspaper. Would have seen an article such as “Teens: the Hyper Sexualisation of Young Girls,” and turned over the page. Never wore moisturiser or a decent bra. Didn’t know how right I was in thinking that I’d absolutely hate skiing and hadn’t read my favourite book.

I smoked 20 cigarettes a day, and the thought, “I desire little from the day besides pottering around at home, wearing something comfy,” hadn’t crossed my mind. I’d never looked at my reflection in the morning and thought: “Wow. I can see my future face.”

I didn’t know what worry was, even though I thought I did. Or grief. Hadn’t learnt how to plaster a wall and couldn’t lay a fire. I didn’t know a lot of things in 1993, even though I thought I did.

At 28, I hadn’t yet had the happiest times of my life, and I definitely wouldn’t have had a clue what to contribute to a group-think on ageing.

“I don’t feel 28,” I blurt, perhaps too loudly, for the chatter dwindles.

“Obviously, I don’t mean I look 28,” the woman explains, “but inside, I feel young and I think it’s true what people say — you’re as young as you feel…”

“In that case,” I say, “I’m not young. I feel every bit of 47. Bang on 47. No younger. No older. Inside, 47 is exactly the age I feel.”

A ripple of disappointment spreads across the room and no one says “me too.”