Fifty Fifty: Too Young to be Middle Aged (Signed)

Fifty Fifty.....Too Young to be Middle Aged The only way to approach middle age is with humour… 'Fifty Fifty' charts a year in the life of one woman’s struggle with day to day routine. A relatively smooth existence alongside her pompous, overbearing husband Harvey and perfect only son Jason soon degenerates into a year of mayhem when she reconnects with her first love. The smooth talking Charlton Heston has taken over as Pudsley’s new premier dentist and his snake like charms haven’t lost the pull of twenty years previously. Sally’s increasingly bizarre behaviour as a bored middle aged housewife is in stark contrast to the actions of the same young woman falling in love twenty five years earlier. Past and present diary entries paint a portrait of a woman torn between a carefree past and the humdrum present. The recorded annals of Sally’s life incorporate boring routine in Pudsley, the iconic sleepy middle class English market town, a long remembered miscarriage in Brighton, family holidays in Italy and a trip to Uganda for her new multi-millionaire boss. ………an astute insight into what awaits us all as we approach our very own mid life crisis. New Year’s Eve 2011 Dimensions I always think of our utility room as sufficiently sizeable, considering it houses washing machine, tumble drier, water softener, sink, and boot rack, cupboards above and below. For its dedicated use it certainly does the trick. A lone observer in a sea of alcoholic frenzy, I calculated that the dance floor, crammed full with the entire staff of PRC Corporate Finance, including wives and partners, must have approximately the same dimensions as our little useful area. Invisibly alone at table number twenty one, surrounded by the debris of a professionally furnished table, I twiddled with the twee flower arrangement and returned the drooping lily which Harvey had gallantly tucked behind my ear. The men robotically gyrated, arms flailing high above their heads in a show of masculine solidarity. Hi Ho Silver Lining had them all jumping on their feet, tugging at the nearest available female, so that she could get stood on, whacked around the face and bear hugged to within an inch of her life. Harvey, with gay abandon, had whipped undone his red bow tie and, in a middle aged effort at sexual bravado, he had also ripped open the top two buttons on his sweat drenched evening shirt. He ‘pinged’ his red braces in time to the lyrics, pumping fists rhythmically in the air and I could have sworn from my vantage point that he had repeatedly slapped the wife of the Vice President on her rather fulsome posterior. At fifteen minutes to midnight I was reluctantly coerced into joining the pre-conga circle, linking hands with a mass of middle aged testosterone fuelled bankers and their expensively clad spouses to herald in the New Year. The parquet floor creaked under the weight of all the merriment and movement; no one dared venture too close to the edge in case their stilettos made contact with the carpet, tantamount to a peripheral existence. I wonder if the Head of PRiCks had reserved the centre of the utility room to perform his gyrating sequence or whether his banking sycophants had deliberately afforded him the luxury of centre stage. At least he looked slightly less ridiculous than those teetering on the edge. Harvey tells me I am a party pooper when it comes to these events, as I never let my hair down. That means I don’t drink enough, flirt sufficiently or dress provocatively enough as becomes the wife of a very senior PRiCk. My eyes stung with tears at the memories. Twenty five years ago this very night, I had sat, oblivious to parquet flooring, utility room dimensions, anticipating a long and passionate night ahead. I can’t remember the table number but the carpet was definitely blue and I have absolutely no recollection pertaining to the snugness of the dance square. I only had eyes for you..........

Diana Wilkinson gained a degree in Geography from Durham University in the late seventies but went on to build up a successful tennis coaching business in North London for many years. A former Irish International player, Diana's main passion has been in the sport of tennis. It is only in recent years that she has taken up writing with a passion to match her love of tennis.