My friend Queenie invited 40 of her closest friends, all women, to a charming Italian restaurant in north London. The table settings were a study in pink with candy-coloured heart sponges, crowns, and wands.

Queenie’s husband Nick made a surprise appearance, gave a loving roast and then skedaddled home before the singalong got going – yes singalong.

Queenie, a psychotherapist and no, that’s not her real name, knows what makes her happy, what fills her cup. She’s confronting this transition to old, as Nick tactfully put it, by celebrating her birthday with only women – her 40 besties– and singing ‘You’re so Vain’, ‘Sugar, Sugar’, ‘Jolene’ and ‘Cecilia’ at the top of her lungs.

Queenie shows zero  signs of slowing down – she works really hard, follows all the latest fashion pages and is always making new friends. Her personality is as big as she is small. Here she is with Stretch last June.

When Stretch heard that not a single male made it onto Queenie’s guest list, he  made me promise that I wouldn’t do the same thing when I turn 60 in a decade or two. Maybe Stretch should take a leaf from Maurice’s book.

Maurice is married to Jessica, one of my long-time besties.

She turns 60 in a few days. Maurice insured that he was on Jessica’s guest list by throwing her a surprise party. Hard for her to argue with something she doesn’t know about. And what a surprise party it was.

Not only was it really fun hiding in the dark and shouting ‘Surprise’ to a stunned birthday girl, but I learned a lot about rocks, a secret passion of mine. The party took place in gorgeous, but trés hilly Dartmoor.

So while Queenie hosted her friends in a cosy, warm, wind-free London venue, Maurice chose to toss us out into the elements, more of a sink or swim feel, in south Devon, about a four hour drive from London.

Prior to our arrival in Dartmoor, Maurice had promised us- mostly middle-aged, not particularly in shape city dwellers- that there would be a choice between two hikes, one easy and one hard. We all knew which one we were choosing.

Sadly, there was a slight miscommunication, and only one hike was on offer- the hard one. Our tour guides for the day Debbie and Amanda led us  up hill after windswept hill, with Debbie (the chattier one although I wouldn’t call either chatty unless it was to do with rocks) – stopping frequently to point out a rock here, a rock there, an invisible rock in the horizon  and the story behind those various rocks or tors as they are called in Dartmoor.

Debbie also pointed out a significant ditch dating back to the Bronze Age or maybe the 18^th century, it was hard to hear with the gale force winds whipping past. I wasn’t quite sure if Debbie said this was a Norman ditch, or Norman’s ditch, but apparently, it was a must-see ditch.

I wouldn’t say this merry group of urbanites was ideally prepared for the rugged tors of Dartmoor. I had to borrow waterproof boots – two sizes too big- thick socks and a shell jacket. My city boots and cute red coat weren’t going to cut it on the muddy, windy terrain of south Devon. However, the hand warmers I found at the bottom of my handbag did prove useful.

Here’s Sandy using one to prevent hypothermia.

Maurice planned quite an elaborate lunch for us mid-climb at a lovely pub with a huge crackling fire, delicious roast chicken, gravy, fries and chilled Chablis.

Just kidding- we lunched  on ‘nature’s picnic basket’…

feasting on…

As we climbed the umpteenth hill, I asked another guest, Arabella, who had planned on taking the non-existent easy hike option what her favourite part of the day’s climb was:

Tea and I haven’t had it yet.

To be fair, Maurice’s itinerary was perfect for Jessica. Jessica is my one true hardcore athlete friend, the steeper the incline, the happier she is. And I wouldn’t call Jessica a foodie- Costco’s lasagna has been served at a dinner party or two. Like Queenie, Jessica is very curious, always up for a challenge, works hard and is a glass half-full kind of person.

She’s thrilled about this for example….

If this is the new face of 60, where do I sign up?

February, 2020

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The next day I bumped into a male friend in the park. We walked for a bit, he talked for a lot. Not once did he ask me about me. Instead I heard all about his recent business successes. Maybe Germaine is right. Maybe we are invisible.

That’s why I love my girlfriends. I know that regardless of how I look, I will never be invisible. The day after my soulless chat with Mr Smug, I went to Richmond Park with my girlfriends  Munkee and Lauren …

and our four-legged children …

We talked about anything and everything. From recurrent body abscesses (the draining part is just another reason I could never have been a doctor) to HRT and where to buy stylish prescription glasses (sign of the times) to bookclub dinner disasters – Wish I was exaggerating with this bookclub menu by loveable superwoman: cheese puffs, Lays potato chips with pesto and mayonnaise dip, followed by Salmon a la Croute stuffed with, wait for it, raisons. Still hungry? Dessert was collapsed chocolate tart with prune Armagnac.

We also discuss love, relationships and  what we’re having for lunch. No topic is ever barred even if we can’t all follow along:

What are those flowers called? I ask.

I call them pink flowers, says Munkee.

Those are rhododendrons and azaleas, answers teacher’s pet Lauren. And those over there are English bluebells. It’s important to distinguish them from the crass arrivistes, Spanish bluebells. Look at those Gunners Manicata!

Gonorrhoea? Munkee asks.

And I thought Poison Ivy was bad. Defs not touching those, I say, as I quickly attach my dogs to their  leashes.

We always get to the heart of the matter and talk about how we really are – where once we got excited by sex, drugs and rock n’ roll (I lie, we were never that cool) we now get hot flushes by the mention of  great books, menopausal cures and good restaurants. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to read Curtis Sittenfeld’s latest novel, Eligible. Talk about an author who gets women. Invisible? Try Invincible.

May, 2016

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