Have you noticed there are very few magnificent magazines anymore, particularly for women of 'The Glamorous Age'? (As my friend calls it.)
The Glamorous Age is the age between 35 and 70. It's the second part of our lives. The great, glamorous, dignified, wise, do-what-we-like-cos-we've-earned-it deuxième part of our lives. We get thirty-five years of this. And by god we're going to enjoy every minute.
The Glamorous Age, you see, when we women start feeling confident. When we start dressing the way we want – and usually the way that suits us, whether we're wearing a sexy frock, a business-like suit, or simply dog-walking attire.
It's when we start dating proper men. And I mean gentlemen, rather than those scruffy, slovenly, perpetually poor, drunken-ass ratbags we hung around with in our twenties, simply because they owned a Ducati, or knew how to kiss, or came from some obscure aristocratic English family.
The Glamorous Age is the age when we finally make headway in our careers having worked our asses off for ten or fifteen long years. It's when we start to afford designer labels, and travel, and nice houses. With gardens we can potter around in, wearing Hunter wellies and planting hydrangeas.
It's when we stop accepting nonsense and bulls**t from other people (terrible word but really, no other phrase for it), and when we start considering that we might just make it in life. And not just make it either, but really tie a bow around the whole thing and make a bloody great celebration of it.
The Glamorous Age is when we realise we have an entire wardrobe of beautiful shoes – I mean spectacularly beautiful shoes, having learned where to buy them cheaply in the world – but we're just as happy to wear lovely casual ones, usually with lovely casual tops and pants to match. (A very French look.)
But The Glamorous Age is also when we've acquired pieces like a proper winter coat (Max Mara, if we can afford it), a proper 'opera coat', a proper Parisian trenchcoat, a beautifully designed handbag, proper luggage, proper lipsticks (Chanel, or YSL), proper fragrances, elegant leather gloves (some of us even have driving gloves: not me; but I want some), and sometimes even a spectacular collection of glorious chapeaux.
The Glamorous Age is when we splash out on expensive bedlinen because it reminds us of the time we stayed in that five-star hotel in New York. And because clean, starched, ironed, high-thread-count white linen is SO much nicer to sleep on.
And The Glamorous Age is when we know how to garden, cook, keep house, wear slips under dresses that need them, write thank-you cards (or emails), place our cutlery on an empty plate the right way, be courteous to our neighbours and strangers, and generally live a life that is kind, gracious, and full of compassion and humour in equal measure.
According to the ABS, there are more of us in The Glamorous Age than any other demographic. We are the masses. The median. The generation with the biggest population.
So why are there so few magazines catering to us?
Whatever happened to all those fabulous ones we used to have?
For vintage magazine covers (a sliver of sentimentality) try: