OK, I know.  This is a subject that's been done to death, and this is not an original, or particularly funny piece...so you've been warned.  But this is my personal take on that whole "getting older" process, and once I'd written it the only thing I could think to do with it was to post it here.  So my apologies...but anyone who wishes to join me in my lamenting is more than welcome.

In the heartfelt words of Jordan and Peter André, “a whole new world” opens up to you with the beginning of each decade of your life.  And I will maintain that the first true sign of getting older is the realisation of this fact. 

The second sign of getting older is when people say things to you that they think are supposed to be flattering, such as “you really don’t look your age…”  I’ve had this saying thrown in my direction by various people once they find out I’m turning thirty.  It’s as though people feel the need to console me by telling me I don’t look old even though I’m getting that way.  To be honest I wouldn’t care too much if I did look my age.  I am thirty; what does it matter whether I look it or not?  And anyway, being over 21 has its advantages…I am able to buy a nice bottle of red wine on the way home from work without having to show my passport (I don’t have a driving licence; I’d like to say it’s because I’m too young, but in actual fact it’s because I’ve failed my driving test a grand total of six times.  And I’m old enough to remember when the test was only twenty minutes long and without that annoying written test and the pointless “show me, tell me” exercise at the beginning that sounds like a dodgy section from a porn magazine).

The third sign of getting older is when you rally round with your friends (of a similar age, of course), lamenting about “the good old days”.  I had a conversation just like this yesterday with some friends whose daughter I am godmother to. 

“What do you want for your birthday, Emily?”  I asked, not having the wherewithal to choose something for a seven year old on my own initiative.

Emily shrugged wordlessly in reply, too engrossed in the DVD she was watching to speak.  Her father piped up “She’s too spoilt; she’s already got everything she wants…”

This sparked off a diatribe about how, when we were kids, we had to make a list of presents, from which our parents would buy us only one thing, and only at Christmas or on our birthdays, not throughout the year.  And isn’t it terrible how kids have mobile phones; when we were younger we didn’t even have a phone in the house, we had to make calls from the phone box down the road, and isn’t it dreadful how many channels there are on the telly these days, you just surf through them all and there’s never anything on, it was so much better when there were only four channels, and there’s so much so-called reality TV on these days, when we were younger everyone knew ‘Big Brother’ and ‘Room 101’ were concepts from a classic novel people had actually read…and this new ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ film with Johnny Depp isn’t half as good as that ‘70s one with Gene Wilder in it, don’t know why they remade it in the first place...and…and...

By this time the kids have gone to sleep and are snoring softly in the corner, all hope of dinner abandoned.

The fourth sign of getting older is the realisation that you don’t care so much about what other people think of you.  When I started my first job at the tender age of eighteen, I spent a lot of wasted time worrying about what people thought of me and how I was coming across to them; what would happen if I said “No” to a request.  The older I get, the less I care about anyone’s opinion save for my family and friends.  This does worry me slightly – I don’t want to get to sixty and not care a jot about anyone’s feelings.  But I read a wonderful quote the other day that I think sums this up…“at age twenty, we worry about what others think of us.  At forty, we don’t care what they think of us; at sixty, we discover they haven’t been thinking of us at all…” 

I like that quote, I find it strangely comforting – and it gives me a bit of hope that I might turn into a serene, sage-like older woman, dishing out advice and philosophical sayings (instead of one of those mad old bats with wild white hair, bellowing nonsense in the High Street.  Although admittedly that might be a bit more fun).

I’m also more confident about the person I’ve become, including shameful 'secrets' such as my addiction to ‘Big Brother’ every summer (it started during BB3 when I was re-organising some college work with it on in the background…I got drawn in and that was that…) reading ‘Heat’ magazine every Tuesday and watching ‘The Jeremy Kyle Show’ whenever I get the chance.  No, I’m not a chav - I don't own enough Burberry for that - but I’m a strong believer that everyone needs a bit of trash in their lives, whether it’s people or artefacts.  Luckily for my husband I suppose, I chose the latter.

The fifth sign of getting older is the realisation that everyone else is getting younger.  I work in Human Resources, some of which involves sifting through people’s CV’s for potential jobs.  I could write a piece all to itself about some of the choice things I’ve read on some of these over the years (one such gem including 'Winner of ‘Loaf of the Year 1995’ in proud red highlighted text…from a former bakery assistant applying to be a dock worker) – but what gets me now isn’t the candidates’ impressive achievements, it’s their dates of birth.  I received my first CV from someone born in 1990 last week, and the resulting pang I felt in the pit of my stomach starkly confirmed that time is moving on. 

Having said all of this, it isn’t trepidation I’m feeling on this, the eve of my 30th birthday, merely awareness.  I suppose the trepidation is to come, although I have to say that deep down I’m actually rather looking forward to it all.  Life has just become that bit more interesting...even if I do end up turning into that mad old bat in the High Street.