It happened to me the other day when I was on holiday on my own. I was sitting on a beach, sun hat on, book in hand, and I found myself watching the young families around me and realising I no longer fitted in. More than that, I didn’t really know where I actually did fit in. I imagined them looking at me and thinking – if they thought anything at all – that I was some sort of remaindered woman, husband-less, child-less, sitting reading like a washed-up former heroine of a novel.
It was a “moment”. But, then again, over the last six years since I turned 50, I’ve been experiencing so many “moments” that it now feels pretty much like a constant buzz of dis-ease within me. I have, over the years, turned from someone who is generally prone to happiness and a sort of sustaining optimism, to someone who feels somewhat irrelevant.
