Marvellous. At the click of a mouse I can set the background of my new blog to a scattering of old fishbones, which is frankly all most of us amount to at 50, top it with a rather racy handwritten scrawl of a title, and bob's your uncle, I can present myself to the world as young and designery instead of woolly brained and varicosely veined.
WEDNESDAY, 16 March 2011
So, I am Eliza Gray. I live in a tiny thatched cottage in a village in the rolling English countryside. Lovely... on a sunny day. Dark, dank and dull the rest of the time. I am divorced. Gitface, as I like to think of him, left me for his toyboy nearly 13 years ago, five months before the emergence of our daughter, Lily. Now, despite recently being a multi-millionaire, he’s left us practically penniless.
At my feet as I type is darling Dusty, my faithful hound, a golden retriever with white whiskers, who, like her dog-sister Lily, is 12 years old (though a venerable 88 or so in dog years).
This isn’t a blog about girlpower. It’s a blog about no power. That’s what happens when you hit 50. Gray by name, grey by nature. That’s what I’ve become! Invisible to the opposite sex, doormatted by my child, selectively ignored by my dog.
I show it to Meredith.
‘Eliza! You see! You’re a natural. Keep it up and you'll be a rich woman before you know it!'