Diary of A Norfolk Broad (Wanted: Yummy Mummy, Fit-At-Forty)

You can't escape it these days - the desire to match up to at least one of the above. Once upon a time, by the age of forty you'd done your bit; had a job, got married, had babies and were ready to step into middle-age with grace. By Forty, instead of worrying about your muffin-top you were more concerned with perfecting your Yorkshire pudding and ensuring your doorstep was the shiniest in the street. But Aunt Bessie now takes care of the Yorkshire pudding, and as for the doorstep - who cares?
It's a little bit different now though isn't it? Nowadays we girls do what we want when we want. We can have a career in our twenties, find a man (any one will do), and then pack in two babies in our thirties, rear children in our forties whilst holding down a full-time/ part-time job, and have our fifties to look forward to for an occasional lie-in (football practice/ ballet / drama/ karate classes permitting). Isn't equality great?
Women fought hard for it - for having it all, and we carry on fighting the fight, but with a 'slight' difference. Look at the cover of any women's magazine and what do you see? The answers to the questions that constantly vex us; How to beat the battle of the cellulite, bannish those crow's feet, which jeans to wear to look ten stone lighter, the secret of looking a hundred years younger ..... I would go on, but how much more depressing would that be?
Isn't it amazing that here we are, with more money (Apparently. Try telling that to my bank manager who gives me the beady eye whenever I have the nerve to enter the bank, and who always finishes our transaction with a little smile and the words, "Shall I make you an appointment to see how we can help improve your finances?"
"In a bit of a hurry today, but I'll definitely pop in next week to sort it out", I say, whilst casually sliding towards the door.
We have more appliances to make life easier; washing machines, tumble-driers, dishwashers, microwaves, but we don't have more time. We have cars for the convenience of not having to wait in the rain for buses, which then means we have to go to the gym to lose the weight that we put on by sitting on our expanding back-sides in the car that was meant to help us but is now responsible for our lack of fitness and cellulite.
But we're tough, we can cope. What we can't ignore is the issue of aging and actually looking like real women. And here's where we really have to win the battle, because to lose it would mean actually looking your age (or worse, older) and showing a less than washboard stomach means admitting that your jelly belly is proof that you were old enough to give birth in the first place.
So here I am, in my quest for the above title, despite my 39 years of experience that tells me its shallow to care so much how I look, and even more so to care what others think about how I look. But honestly, what would mean more than anything on my ever looming fortieth birthday would be for someone to say, "Oh my God, you've lost so much weight, and by the way, you really don't look your age".
P.S (Some months later .....) I actually had an amazing birthday despite the fact that not one person mentioned how young or slim I looked. Clearly, with age has come wisdom, or else I had such a good time at my surprise party at the Savoy, Joe Allens and during my weekend in Paris that I was too drunk and too busy having a good time to care! Ah, Forty - its fabulous.