I have a ‘significant’ birthday coming up in a week or so- I don’t have any particular worries about saying what it is. I want people to either exclaim ‘My God, how does she keep looking so young?’ or ‘My God, I can’t believe we have another how many years of her hyperactivity left? can we book her into the Rita Angus now and she can run the craft program whilst she waits for a room!’
In reality most will say ‘Oh no, everyone knows I went to school with her/ is my little sister and now the ageist cat is out of my wrinkled bag.’
Too bad gals- it was a good year and we should celebrate! But… that brings me to my only real concern about reaching the half century. Due to the recession and the fact that I’ve pigeon holed myself into a creative career that has plenty to do with fame but not a lot to do with money, the celebrations will be extra slim. It seems nothing much has changed over the years- I wrote this poem for Next Magazine in 2000 and it was just the same then. Dang! I have changed the age in the poem to more accurately reflect my age and I like to think I look even better in the fluffy slippers.
The nicest bottle of bubbly sent to me in honour of my day will recieve the original signed illustration sealed with a kiss. How good is that?
For my 50th birthday,
I’d always had it planned,
That I’d spend it on an island
With Dom Perignon in hand.
Lying in a lounger
On a beach with my two sisters,
I’d gossip, drink and toast myself
‘till I broke out in large blisters.
Gorgeous boys, just half our age
Would serve us mangoes sweet,
Then rub our backs with suntan oil,
And massage our bare feet.
Then when the sun went down at night,
We’d put our glad rags on,
And dance away the evening
To some South Sea Island song.
But looking at my bank account,
I see my wild dreams
Involve a better income
Than my current one, it seems.
So due to dwindling credit
(And the unrest in Fiji)
I’ll pour a Lindauer at home and sing
“Happy Budget Day to me”