Twenty years ago today I sealed my fate. I vowed that the old man’s penis would be the last adult one I’d ever see….(obviously at that point I hadn’t counted on the exhibitionism of my sixteen year old ADHD son).
Did I mention that the anniversary celebrations have finally been booked? We are off to Wrinkly Lodge, or I should say… some beautiful old hotel in the Blue Mountains with an abundance of floral chintz, quilted bedcovers and a beautiful old wood panelled bar that only serves Sherry.
The old man’s choice!
I’m not complaining……much. (Just call me ‘Princess’).
At least this little ‘mini break’ is costing enough of a small fortune to be hurting the old man like hell, (I think his wallet actually threw up last night), which in a sick way proves to me that after twenty years together there is some discernible love left between us.
If truth be told, I’m a bit more of a modernist in my style and given the choice might have preferred a quirky, little boutique hotel with pink velvet chairs, faux zebra skin rugs and an Eames Lounge Chair, say, to get my style juices really going.
Wrinkly Lodge just sounds a bit, well, ‘too wrinkly’ for me. A tad dull. Like we’re old or something! It sounds like the sort of place we went to in our twenties when we were pretending to be all grown up, but had no taste. I don’t actually need reminding that we are middle-aged now – why else would we be celebrating twenty years together?
I can just about accept being middle-aged but I don’t have to pro-actively seek out other more mature middle-aged people to spend my free time with.
I am sure that Wrinkly Lodge will be sophisticated and classy and decadent in a period drama kind of a way, but I’m just not sure I’m quite there yet. It’s no secret that I’m still sadly trying to salvage some element of my youth, even if I’m barely holding onto it by my finger nails. Why else would I have subjected myself to a week of skiing torture?
I would have preferred to turn back time just for one weekend, to have gone somewhere where I could pretend we were back in our twenties, somewhere hip and vibrant, even if I was the oldest parent in the playground. I want to get out my glad rags again, my f*ck me heels, some sparkle and glamour and put on the old liquid eyeliner and red lipstick – as opposed to fast-forwarding ten years and sitting in silence together in some cold wood panelled bar with a whisky, dressed in comfortable clothing, Hush Puppies squeaking on the polished floor.
Needless to say, the old man loves a bit of wrinkly Golf Club glamour. Put him in an environment of grey-hair with either Duck a L’Orange or Beef Bourgignon on the menu and a select choice of vintage whiskies, and he’s in heaven. He sees contemporary cuisine as the devil’s food, a ‘pay-more to eat-less’ food fashion – ‘smears’ and ‘froths’ raise his blood pressure.
I take comfort from the fact that we won’t be indulging in the hotel breakfast or lunch at least – the old man has suggested we bring our toaster and Marmite to save money.
This weekend I may not be Brigitte Jones, but I will proudly be the Princess of Wrinkly Lodge, and although once again he might have got it a little wrong, I will be sharing the experience with my Mr Darcy.