“This generation will be living to 120, seriously, 120,” a high-pitched male, who’s booking my hair-appointment, tells me. I’ve just told him that I’m off to my grandmother’s 90th, which now just doesn’t seem quite as impressive. Indeed, it feels like this summer my Facebook feed has been filled with snaps from 90ths. Whether it’s the quality of medicine, or simply something in the water, I don’t know, but people are living longer. Ninety is the new 80 – impressively old but not on death’s door.
Last Sunday, my grandmother made the transition from octogenarian to nonagenarian and was on flying form. Drinking, joking, laughing – a picture of health.
Her 80th, and 80ths in general, seem to take place during your awkward teen years – you spent the evening sipping coca-cola talking to distant relatives. At 90ths, there are, for obvious reasons, fewer people, and you’re older, allowed to drink and surrounded by first cousins. The aforementioned combination makes for an absolutely brilliant party, which precisely a week ago, is exactly what we had.