Fab at Forty - am I?
So, forty finally arrived. It looks alien on the screen to me. Me, 40! It sounds so mature. Grown up. Like I should be able to knit. Or at least sew a button on. I know you want to know whether I was indeed Fab at Forty. Well of course I couldn’t say…but I can say that after ten months of counting and pointing and shaking my thang at Zumba, I’ve managed to knock a couple of stone and a couple of dress sizes off. Never got to my holy grail 12 though, so at least I’ve still got something I can put on my New Year list. After not knowing what to do, I decided to have a party, where enough people duly oohed and aahed about my reinvention to have made it worthwhile. Three generations of family raised a glass, and friends old and new put on their gladrags and helped me have a lovely time. But now what? I’ve been planning for months, buying shimmery and glimmery doo-dahs to put some fab in the very functional function ro...