Not an Essex girl

A word from my dad on my turning 40.

'I wouldn't worry too much about hitting forty if I was you, dear. Imagine if you were an Essex Girl arriving at that same point in time, you might want to fling your accentuated heels under the bed and call it a day. And believe me there are an awful lot of Essex Girls of an indeterminate but decidedly mature age stumbling up and down the High Street of Brentwood in high-rise footwear and high-rise frocks wondering whether their stringy and sinewy legs can take a further dose of carcinogenic body tan. It's a sad thing to see. Or you could be so saturated in wealth that you might feel an urgent nose or chin job required a visit to the Harley Street cosmetician to do his Frankenstein trademark. Or you might be tempted by the vagaries of the personal trainer and guru to give you a complete spiritual makeover in the colonic department.

My feeling is that whatever age we are it is best to accept it with grace, dignity, and a sense of achievement and humour - all four in equal measure.'




Please note that no offence was meant to any real Essex girls in the making of this blip and neither am I suggesting that the owner of these ridiculous shoes is in any way like one of the girls described by my Dad.

The shoes belong to my sister (who claims she could give good chase in them if she had to).

The closest my feet get to them is when I trip over them lying on the floor.