5 Brilliant TV Series For The Discerning Middle-Aged Couple

The old man and I watch a lot of detective series together. It’s the only genre that hits the sweet spot for both of us. For him, there are car chases, guns, and psychopaths  – although, sadly no dragons – and for me, there is typically a decent representation of female characters – albeit, few of them survive to the end. 

I’m not great at suspending belief for the sake of entertainment or indeed following the plot of any storyline with more than a handful of characters, so while I enjoyed Game of Thrones, my decaying brain found the magnitude of the cast and locations very confusing.

Unlike Unforgiven, which is another outstanding British series and almost on a par with the quality of Line Of Duty and Luther – although, I’m not sure that anything can come really close to Idris chasing baddies through the streets of London – which offers some gruesomely believable plotlines, a mesmerizing cast, and seriously pretty, chocolate box locations.

In fact, I only found one very minor flaw with the series. Because, is it just me, or is anyone else seriously amazed by the way that characters ‘called in to help with police inquiries,’ can remember EXACTLY where they were and what they were doing between the hours of 9pm and 12pm on February 3, sixteen years ago?

I mean…I struggle to remember what I was doing last night, and when friends reminisce about some great night we spent together three years ago, I can’t remember a damn thing about it.

Of course, I suppose that if I was a killer, I might remember burying the body of some poor woman in the middle of roadworks on the North Circular. But if not, I’m a little sceptical about being able to remember who was a guest at my party on New Year’s Eve, 2009. On the rare occasions that I feel nostalgic and drag out the family photo albums, sometimes I struggle to remember when the photos were taken, their location, or even which child I’m looking at!

Anyway, for those of you mid-lifers that are struggling to find a tv series that keeps you together and awake beyond 8pm,  Unforgiven is one of the best series we’ve watched over the past few months, and I’ve added a few other suggestions below:

Band Of Brothers – Understandably, there was only one woman in the entire series, (who is taken out by a bomb), but WOW! this is a truly amazing series, on a par with the standard of Saving Private Ryan. Starring a young Damian Lewis, this series will make you seriously think about the true meaning of ‘dark times.’

Unforgiven – Great cast, gritty storylines, and typically in-your-face realism which is what I love about good British detective series. You won’t find any perfectly-manicured cops on this show – they’re all damaged and saddled with personal baggage – but I love the way the characters’ personal relationships are woven into the storylines.

Jack Irish – We’re late to the party on this one, but what’s not to love about the self-deprecating wit and charisma of Guy Pearce? Great twists and turns in this awesome Aussie series.

Killing Eve – I’m a tad reluctant to add this to my list, but I can’t deny that this series was highly entertaining with some strong female characters that keep you on your toes all the way through. Personally, it got a wee bit silly for me towards the end, but that might be my issue with artistic license.

Better Call Saul – I haven’t finished this series yet, but the old man swears by it.

Couples Holidays For The Middle-Aged – When Sometimes It’s Easier To Stay At Home

The problem with going away when you finally reach that longed-for stage of almost empty-nesting is that anxiety tends to rear its ugly head at about the same time in your life, and it throws up all sorts of other issues. So although we don’t have to worry about remembering a long list of toddler essentials like nappies and sterilizers and portable beds nowadays, we do have to prepare ourselves for the mental anguish of dashed expectations, change, flying, other people and more importantly other people’s small children.

Sometimes, I wonder whether it would be easier to stay at home.

Somewhat predictably, I fear we have turned into one of those moaning, judgmental, middle-aged couples on holiday because there is definitely a pattern emerging each time we go away, where we spend more time waiting to get home than actually enjoying our holiday.

‘It’s a bit hot,’ the old man had commented, an hour into our holiday as we downed our second drink in celebration of our survival of the most tumultuous flight since London to Dublin circa 1995.

‘Stop moaning,’ I said, as I watched him squint at the sun because he forgot to pack his sunglasses.We’re making an effort to be grateful this holiday, remember?’ I reminded him sternly.

Because we know we should be grateful. A whole week without the kids at one of the nicest hotels we’ve ever been to – (because I got a deal) – and I had even managed to ignore the unspoken meaning behind the words of mine and Kurt’s doctor when she grabbed me by the shoulder the day before we left and said, ‘are you seriously leaving Kurt with NC?’ Surely, she should know by now that’s not the sort of thing you say to someone you are treating for anxiety disorder?

‘I’m never flying again,’ I had stated earlier that morning when we stepped off the plane on legs that refused to coordinate after two hours of non-stop turbulence on a three hour flight in which that whole scene when NC tells Kurt that the old man has left all of their inheritance to the Spoodle Sanctuary had played over and over in my mind as I decided we were going to die – and even worse, on a flight during which there was no alcohol with which to dull the demons of anxiety because it was breakfast time and society dictates…never mind.

But two hours later we found ourselves in paradise, and the effects of drinking wine in the sun at lunchtime and the knowledge that we might survive another week had given me some (false) hope, so we ventured down to the pool of our hotel. And lo and behold, two free sunbeds jumped out at us immediately (without the old man having to threaten or remove anyone’s towels) – in the shade, but as the old man informed me whilst setting his alarm for 5 am tomorrow, that would be the last time anyone put him in the shade – and so finally, we settled down to relax.

But if you believe in the Law of Attraction, you’ll know that it was almost inevitable that as soon as our eyes began to glaze over, those first cold splashes of pool water from about a dozen noisy kids who decided that the best part of the Olympic-sized pool to play in with big blow up toys and water soakers was directly in front of us, would bring us back to reality. Kids, we had assumed, would be at school at this time of the year.

The heat of hatred seared my body from the direction of the old man’s sunbed well before the sun had a chance, as he hissed a ‘fuck!’ under his breath. ‘Breathe!’ I said to myself as I pulled my towel over my head.

‘Look at how gorgeous this place is,’ I tried, looking out towards our surroundings above the heads of the feral children at the clear blue sky framed by palm trees and the crystal waters beneath it – my ears just about able to pick up the clink of Champagne glasses from the al fresco restaurant over the whining squeals of ‘Mummy, MUMMY…LOOK AT ME!’ in every other direction.

A tut came back in response.

‘Do you know how intolerant you’re becoming with middle age?’ I asked him, wiping the water from my legs.

‘Pfft!’ he responded. ‘We’re going to an over-18 hotel next time.’

‘We can’t afford over-18 hotels…’

‘Okay, well I’m staying at home, then,’ he said, jamming his earplugs into his ears, like a sulking teenager.

‘There’s still the buffet breakfast…’was my last-ditched attempt to save the week.

To be continued…

The Wedding Anniversary Negotiations

The author does not apologise for the foul language contained in this post. Occasionally, certain descriptive words are necessary to the content.

The twentieth wedding anniversary plans are moving forward, although not quite in the direction I had hoped.

My sister in Brisbane has kindly taken pity on us and offered to lock up Kurt at her pad for three whole days so that the old man and I can go on a Brigitte Jones-esque ‘mini break’ for the weekend.

Kurt smiled for the first time in three months when I told him and said it was ‘rad’ – which I understand to mean that it is a good thing.

When I excitedly told the old man that I had managed to outsource childcare for our delinquent our son, his response was not the unmitigated euphoria I had expected. He looked puzzled at first and then suggested that if we could entice Nerd Child out of her bedroom and pack her off on some physics internship for the three days, we could stay at home together and save some money instead.

Now wouldn’t that be a special way to spend our anniversary?

‘Go back to f*cking Mars’, I secretly thought….(or may have actually voiced at the time).

I objected calmly to his suggestion, justifying that we WERE going to do something special because surviving twenty years together deserved a celebration of sorts. Whereupon he questioned why on earth we would choose to spend such a ludicrous amount of money on one weekend away when we could stay in the city and perhaps go to a really nice restaurant instead (!). Anyway, he asked finally, (turning the knife a little harder), was a celebration really necessary?

Who said romance was dead?

To which I assured him wholeheartedly that, yes, I personally felt the need to celebrate twenty years of living with a complete c….t.

‘How big a c….t? he asked with a straight face. ‘The biggest?’ And I realised he was on the verge of launching into his favourite Billy Connolly joke again.

I shot him one of my best withering looks.

So surprise, surprise, our luxurious mini-break for two isn’t going to be to Hayman Island after all. No, I won’t be showing off my new Speedo swimmers on the beach anytime soon. Apparently, we are going by train to that well-known lovers destination of the Blue Mountains instead. To the cold, again. Because after an enforced week at the snow (skiing) in the company of the dysfunctional family, I will really want to freeze my nuts off again the following week!

I have begrudgingly agreed to the weekend on the condition that we can stay in a swanky, deluxe hotel with pool, chocolate fountain and full access to the mini bar as my minimum luxury requirements. The old man wants to stay in a motel with Fox Sports and for us to buy our booze (like the cheapskates that we are) at the local bottle shop.

I am on the verge of committing what happened to Theon in Game of Thrones on my husband – (hold me back, Satan).

Sometimes, just sometimes, I truly question why I didn’t marry one of those lovely (but deathly dull) ‘nice guys’ who worshipped me in my twenties and would have booked a weekend on Haymen Island without batting an eyelid, simply to make me happy.

What made me choose ‘the biggest c…t’?

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