I am getting old. I saw it today reflected back at me in the plexiglass divider on a London bus: fine lines (ok, wrinkles) in the area right above my cleavage, a warning bell that scoop necks and I are not long for this world.This reminded me of a conversation I had with my husband last night about the perpetual dilemma of life in London: it’s generally unpleasant to live here unless you have the resources of a Russian oligarch, but it’s where all the well-paid jobs are. And unless we cut the golden (silver in our case) handcuffs at some point and up sticks for the Cotswolds permanently we’ll be old and stuck here in London. Old people in London are a tragic sight, shuffling along filthy streets and being tossed around like brittle twigs on the shock absorber-free buses. Nothing makes me more depressed. Not even the sight of my own cleavage wrinkles.
