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My First Blog Post

Putting myself out there!

“We are not retreating – we are advancing in another direction” — whoever Google claims said it first

This is my first ever post from August 2017, when I started blogging on Facebook as Growing Old Disgracefully:

A lot of friends have suggested starting a blog. Now they might have an ulterior motive (getting my exceedingly long posts off their feeds) but I’m hoping it’s because they like what I post and want others to see it too.

This blog is the voice of a middle aged woman who laughs at life. I’m not sex on a stick any more (zero f*cks given about that) and retirement is an actual thing not too far away rather than a mythical creature locked in a golden cage at the end of a rainbow (as it seemed 10 years ago). But I refuse to do this growing old stuff with grace and dignity. In my 20s success was defined by money, looks etc and I wanted to “be someone” (who the actual f*ck I wanted to be, I’ve no idea). In my 40s and thereafter, success is when a woman puts on the hand drier just as I do a massive fart in the M&S loos.

People think I’m a nice, middle-class lady. I am! Mostly. But I still think anything to do with bums is hilarious (much to the annoyance of anyone who has tried to confide seriously in me about a bum-related illness – apparently uncontrollable giggling is not an appropriate response). I smoke when drunk and when that catches up with me they can bury me at sea in a chocolate coffin. Let’s face it, I’m never going to run away and join the WI.

My husband, Mr V, is my best pal. You will probably feel sorry for him when I laugh about him. Don’t worry, he’s fine with it and he was one of the people telling me to start a blog. We don’t argue much. He once told me that when he’s really rich he’s going to argue with everyone because he’ll have the time to do it and the money to deal with the consequences. Now if we ever have words I just need to point out that he’s not rich enough to argue with me.

I have 2 teenagers; cherub 1 who will proudly Instafacechat every post if I mention her and cherub 2 who is mortified if I even acknowledge that I’m related to him and would actually prefer it if I walked a few steps behind him on the rare occasions we have to be seen in public together. There is also a procession of their teenage friends, of whom I’m very fond but who regard the contents of my fridge as public property. My two Jack Russells, Vegas and Biggles, are my wee hairy boys. Biggles is a telly addict and Vegas just wants to be loved. And I know how much I love them because no matter how smelly they are I’ll let them sleep on the bed. Which is more than I can say for Mr V.

I think that’s enough of an introduction.

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