At the ripe old age of 56 I find myself pondering a life less ordinary.
Most of it has been spent confidently asserting my whimsical fantasies on an unsuspecting world. More recently, confidence comes more easily than it has before.
However, confidence and I are one night stands. Confidence is the lover I never snared, not for keeps. It comes and goes without warning and leaves nothing but genderless, faceless and ethereal memories.
When I was a child I wanted to please my parents. I needed their approval to function. I was painfully shy and it annoyed them. It made me worse of course. I was a terribly anxious child.
Later, when I discovered punk and booze I battled with bulimia and that terrible defeater of confidence, fat.
When I was a mother, on the bones of my plump arse, a single parent living in one of Europe's worst council estates, I contended with the Joneses. I could never keep up, no matter what I did.
Now that I have finally got used to the echo of my empty nest I see my body and my looks change almost hourly. Youth teases like the party bitch, a privileged gate crasher. Just as confidence arrived with its suitcase for something more meaningful, youth flashed her firm breast and confidence was gone.