Slipping Into Fifty

“Day-bore-ah”, as her French friends and clients call her with such delightful precision, turned 50 at the beginning of February. How best should she mark an occasion that, in pure birthday terms, ranks with the 21st as the most legitimate cause for a five-star celebration?

It would certainly have to sparkle more than the damp squib that marked her 40th, which coincided unluckily with a very stressful period of our new lives in a foreign society.

Besides, turning 40 is mere play-acting compared to the matter of embarking on your sixth decade of life. As characters in a Jane Austen novel, we might by now be presiding over a bevy of mature daughters given to treat us as dotty old nincompoops within sight of the finishing line.

At 40 you’re still actively resisting the ageing process. At 50 you should have learned to accept and even embrace it. Marking such an occasion calls really for a congress of friends old and new. The trouble is, when you live abroad, people won’t generally make the trip in mid winter.

Being a modest soul, and since the day itself occurred on a Sunday, when the French traditionally dedicate an entire afternoon to lunch, 'er indoors' decided to convene a meal for a select group of close friends at a local restaurant with a burgeoning reputation.
Two old friends from London arrived by train to swell the numbers. Their hostess even took some time off from her gruelling work of putting the area’s depressed back on track with strategic questions and aromatherapy massage.

If Saturday night was feverish with last minute activity, the sleep that ensued was punctuated by the birthday girl’s restless anticipation. I found her at some indecent hour, reading on a sofa, smiling like some beneficent monarch and feeling irrepressibly chirpy.
“I’m so excited!” she announced. “I thought I might dread being 50, but it’s absolutely fine. I still feel like I’m 30, but I know I’m not, so I’ve decided to take it as a testimony to maturity and wisdom.”

Not long after she was giggling like a ten-year old as her first present turned out to be a packet of tissues, wrapped-up by our daughter, for the anticipated tears of emotion. As one of her birthday messages suggested, 'Growing old is compulsory; growing up is optional'.

After our daughter’s exquisite hand-decorated tea set had triggered the tears and after all the other presents and the phone calls from back home and the royal breakfast, the invited friends turned up to drink champagne and pay their respects to the centre of attention. An apparent stranger walked down our drive with a big bunch of flowers. It was the local florist with a commission from the local homeopath, who has started working on a monthly basis with “Day-bore-ah”.

Then we all drove in convoy down the steep windy road to our village, parked at its very own little railway station and crossed to the restaurant. In truth, the food was a trifle fussy and disappointing, but the atmosphere was convivial, the conversations were animated and the occasion felt fit for the notching of half a century.

Before bed, our daughter asked her mother whether she had had a nice birthday. She had. “And you know the nice thing about being 50? It gives you an opportunity to look back and take stock of what you’ve achieved and it makes you determined to enjoy however many years you’ve got to come. I’ve got such a lot to feel proud of and thankful for. I mean, it’s quite an achievement just to make it to 50 when you think of all the hazards out there – how easy it is to fall and break your arm or shut your finger in a car door.”

So I’m delighted to report that Mrs. Sampson has slipped seamlessly into her 51st year with the grace, humour and equanimity that I know and love. Clearly she has now earned the right to access the 50connect site and explore all that might beckon for a quinquagenarian in such fine fettle.

Mark Sampson, February 2008

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