Having spent a recent Friday evening with my best friends – and several margaritas – I experienced the kind of hunger there’s only one cure for. Within 30 minutes, I was horizontal on my sofa contemplating whether to dispose of the empty pizza box now or the next morning. It isn’t often I succumb to a midnight feast, but I do have form. In a dusty photo album somewhere, there’s a picture of me in Magaluf in the same sofa-slumped state; tanned teen legs propping up a pizza box, the pre-dawn hour clearly visible on my leopard-print watch. Only, I’m not 19 anymore; I’m now 41.
I’m divorced, no kids – happily single. My scalp has yet to sprout a grey hair and I’m regularly assured, without asking, that I pass for an unquantifiable thirtysomething. In fact, the life I lead today doesn’t dramatically differ from the one I had 20 years ago. I feel as energised and engaged as I ever did;
