I love being in my forties

Seriously, it's a wonderful age. Last night at a Spandau Ballet and Tears For Fears concert, I was almost completely surrounded by people in their forties (the bands included), and what a civilised yet fun, attractive yet dignified bunch we were.



As I watched the video footage of the Spandau boys on their tour bus in the eighties, looking ludicrously skinny and floppy-fringed, I remembered watching them the first time around at age 15 or 16, and thought, 'Jeez. What a relief I don't have to go through all that again.'



I'd never have seen them live the first time around, of course. Too young, too broke, too lacking in transport and indulgent approving parents. This time I could afford the ticket, I could afford a babysitter, I could afford the cab to get me there on time and even an exorbitantly-priced drink in the interval.



This isn't because I'm forty plus and rich, I hasten to add. It's because I go out about as often as the moon is full, as it was last night. These days, if you do get dressed up and head out to bars as a woman in your forties, you're in grave danger of being labelled a cougar. Last time I risked being in a pub late on a Saturday, I had to approach some pimply youth. (I declare, hand on heart, that I have no interest in boys of 20 who are still wet behind the ears, and probably some other places too. Shudder). He rolled his eyes as I got closer and I realised this must have happened before - some saddo old enough to be his mother must have made a move on him. Except in this case, it was only because his bony behind was on my coat. I told him so, too, as I yanked it out from under him (and I can do that because I'm over 40).

That wouldn't be sufficient reason to keep me at home, of course. But honestly, why would I put myself through that kind of horror when I can stay in and catch up with the entire season of Lie To Me on My Sky. I have My Sky. I love My Sky! That's a definite advantage of being over forty. I can have my own My Sky. Plus I don't need permission, I don't need approval, and I feel like I've earned the right to do what the heck I like, and if that's spending a whole day catching up on House then so be it. But I've also learned that it's only good to indulge yourself if you're not hurting anyone else in the process. In my forties I slowly became aware that I don't have to put up with any rubbish in my life, but by the same token, I don't have to be the cause of it in anyone else's life either.



I can't wait for the foursome who were in front of us at the concert to figure this out. There were two women in their late twenties who stumbled drunkenly to their seats, next to two guys who were old enough to know better but clearly thought all their birthdays (their 18ths?) had come at once. They were in and out of their seats getting more alcohol, standing on their chairs, and acting out their whole four-way flirtation for anyone who might perchance be bored with the fantastic concert they'd paid to see. One of the women seemed inordinately proud of her large and unfettered breasts, and swung them about like an executive toy until they practically took up the seats either side of her. God, they were unpleasant. The people, not the boobs - but oh well, yes, the boobs too. She could have had someone's eye out, and only two people in the entire arena might have been pleased about it.



And it's not like everyone else looked old and past it, either. There were some very beautiful people around, both in the audience and on the stage. Steve Norman, Spandau's saxophonist, looked fantastic, and he's 50. In fact, he looked younger on stage than he did in the eighties footage they played as a backdrop. He didn't seem to have aged one bit; there must be a Steve portrait in his attic in which he resembles Keith Richards.



But that's when it occurred to me. They still look good, it's True. Back in the eighties, though, that's all I would have cared about. They were pretty, and I had a vague awareness that Tony Hadley could really sing. Oh, and he was pretty. So tall, and with that fringe, and pretty ...



Last night, what came across more than anything was that they are fabulous musicians. That voice hasn't lost an atom of its power and brilliance, and the musicality of these eighties fops just radiated around the arena (same with Tears For Fears, incidentally). In their forties and beyond, they showcased their not insignificant skills, and that's what made them gorgeous to behold. Maybe that's what this age is about - being able to be proud of what you've achieved, even if it's only that you've learnt a few life lessons and know what not to do again in the future.



Oh, sure, there are less appealling aspects to your forties. I have a twingey knee. I'm dancing and exercising three or four times a week and it spikes me regularly with pain. When I explained to my 25 year old Pilates teacher that I had a twingey knee, she asked me how I'd injured it. 'I turned 40,' I said.



She appeared to be waiting for a more detailed explanation, but that's really all there is to it. My knee's just a bit old, like the rest of me. But not so old that I can't dance on it. I've had 20/20 vision for my whole life - so what if I now have to stretch my arm out full-length to read the label on a bottle? I think glasses can look very foxy. I drove around this morning in such a dream that I committed three traffic violations on the trot. To cut a long story short, I'd lost my mind. But I survived, and so did everyone else, and I now have a new chapter for my book which I was struggling with.



Anyway, who cares if my knee and my eyes and my ability to concentrate give out occasionally? If I don't, why should anyone else? Other people's opinions matter so much less to me these days, and that gives me such a sense of freedom that I wouldn't trade it for the world, even to get back a twinge-free and well-oiled knee .



Tonight, I'm off to see Ironman 2. It wll be very silly and completely unedifying and I will absolutely love it. I won't take any notice of any reviews because I will make up my own mind about it, and I won't be at all bothered if nobody else concurs. Furthermore, I'm going to see it in Gold Class where I can stretch out my shonky knee in my fully-reclining seat, and have a drink and something very slightly gourmet to eat. I can do that, see, because I'm in my forties.



And if you don't agree and think your twenties or thirties have to be your best-ever decade? Well, I don't really care ... It's not my job to convince you. Anyway, all in good time. You'll see, my friend. You'll see.