On Sunday I turned 26 – a sadly unavoidable chronological event that, admittedly, I was putting off mentally for as long as possible. Having reached this grand old age however – as with previous birthdays, I feel relatively unchanged – albiet a little wiser after trapping my hair in the car door this morning, rendering me without head movement until I reached a set of traffic lights. Being 26 therefore has so far taught me:

a) Don’t panic when experiencing restrictive head movement whilst driving an automobile. This can lead to the accidental pushing of buttons on your steering wheel and your radio will set itself to Rude Boy FM- ‘the indecipherable music mix’.

b) People will not come running to help you out of your predicament if you are shouting in a car on your own. No one can hear you. Instead people willl think you are either mad or suffering from a sort of travel induced turrets and will try to avoid you by overtaking, or will keep at a safe distance to your rear.

c) Shut car doors with caution in blustery conditions.

This slightly traumatic event aside (I still have an unusual kink on the right hand side of my barnet), becoming 26 was a delightful event that I managed to arrange over a long weekend. The frivolities began on Saturday with a meal and a trip to the theatre, which once again tested my friendship with a dear companion whom I seem to personally (and quite accidentally) terrorise on each of the outings I plan. So far I have confirmed for her she is afraid of heights, does not like ghost stories, the smell of a pork sandwich turns her stomach, and she is particularly terrified by plays where there are moments of darkness, loud noises and a horror plot. I can only apologise, although next time I may test her squimish tendencies and arrange an appointment to donate blood…

Sunday – ‘the actual day’ of my birth was equally lovely with a superb lunch in a favourite pub and a stroll about the village of Goring which is (as family history and my frequency of visits would have it) officially home as far as I’m concerned. The day ended as well as it began with nibbles, friends, family and an extrodinary amount of my Mum’s delicious carrot cake – something that one doesn’t mind getting older for!

On Monday Neil and I ventured to Southampton, where (and no doubt he will give a more detailed account) we looked to purchase a swanky new wagon. A deal struck beforehand also meant I was allowed a visit to Mottisfont Abbey near Romsey, an extremely pleasant place with a stream full of large trout, a restaurant that serves a hearty creamy chickeny potatoey lunch, and was occupied by staff with a penchant for naming their cars (it is only at the National Trust you find these people. I admit to being one of them).

So indeed, I may now be 4 years away from the big ’30′, but if the moment occurs in as much style as being 26 did – I say bring it on!

I just may need more carot cake in condolence.

Please note:

Photographs of the weekends events will shortly be available to view on the ALBD gallery.

More often than not when I travel by bus, I will spend at least some of my time pondering why old ladies (normally well represented on this mode of transport) all seem to sport the same hair do.

It would seem that at around the age of 65, you no longer harbor any desire to ‘add a few layers and keep the length’ when you visit the hairdresser, your mop is no longer contaminated with every spray, spritz or serum stocked at Tony and Guy, and the curious way in which you used tie up your barnet using only chinese chopsticks seems no longer appealing. No, the new order of the day is short, white, tidy and most definitely curly.

For a while I did wonder whether like a bus pass, at retirement age you were given vouchers for free trips to a hairdresser that only offered this kind of do – perhaps as an economy of scale. Recently however, I have reasoned that maybe all elderly people’s hair is simply styled this way as an issue of practicality, being able to fit under a rain hood without any bits poking out and getting wet for example. The ‘old person look’ therefore is potentially not simply a matter of taste, but occurs through a number of sensible decisions having been made.

You may ask me why all of a sudden I have arrived at such conclusions.

You see, the fact of the matter is that I have a shopping bag.

This didn’t occur to me until the other day as the bag I carry in addition to my handbag is normally used for transporting my lunch to the office. Recently however I have found myself venturing out with it with the sole intention of storing any intended purchases within its robust hessian material, and have delighted in the comfort of its padded handles – much more user friendly than your average plastic carrier bag.

The problem lies in that it is only really old people that have a designated shopping bag -but thus is my argument. I can see their point.

So along with my bag, the flat, sensible shoes that I purchased a little while ago, the tissue stuffed up my sleeve for ease of use and my general disapproval of the behaviour displayed by most young people (pull your trousers up please, I do not want to see your underwear) , I am well on my way to being a proper old person.

I just know when I start writing to the council about rubbish collection and am attracted to anything crocheted I’ll truly be there.

I can’t wait.