I turned 24 this week.
The change has had its ups and downs. Predominantly downs, as you can imagine; at 24 my mum was married, had me on the way and a flourishing new business in the pipeline. At the same age, that chap Spiegel who invented Snapchat was already worth something-billion dollars and turning down offers left, right and centre for his creation. Beyoncé decided, at this shining time in her life, to break away from Destiny’s Child and pave the way to a bright future and a solo career.
I, on the other hand, have been given my first proper handbag by my friends to stop me from carrying around my ‘embarrassing’ net shopping bag and am more often than not covered head to toe in dogs’ wee. This is the marking of my 24th year (25th year? Don’t – even worse.)
In life there are various indications that one is becoming old.
Such indications include forgetting and muddling the names of nearest and dearest (“Claire – er, Kate – Jesus! Karen, can you pass the milk?”) and frantically looking for one’s glasses when they are perched on top of one’s head. Though, luckily, I haven’t yet reached either of these stages, as I approach the dawn of my 24th year I have noticed one specific change in myself which does indicate a certain maturity, despite my eternal incapacity to clean up after myself and my penchant for buying cuddly toys. And that change, friends, is a recent significant increase in my interest for cultivating plants; a feature usually associated, I’m sure you’ll agree, with middle-aged women in straw hats and portly fathers brandishing trowels and scattering slug pellets about their vegetable patches (like – ahem – my own dad.)