Who is she?

Do you ever find yourself outside, looking at yourself?

In theory I was at the checkout at Sainsburys on Saturday; in reality I was reeling around in the ether, stumbling and stuttering in amazement. When did it happen? When did I become this grown-up woman with responsibility for running a home, cooking food, stocking up on toilet rolls, bringing up children, driving a car?

It must have happened when, to quote John Lennon, I was busy doing something else. I certainly didn't notice it. I'm not old enough for heaven's sake! Or responsible enough. How have these years gone by? Have I done okay?

I think I must have: I've fooled lots of people. Including me. Because that's not really me. I'm the girl who skips, who had adventures with Harvey, who gets embarrassed when there's sex on television.

I'm not the woman the boy on the checkout can see. The middle-aged, wrinkled, overweight, less-than-impeccably-dressed woman. The woman he feels he must make conversation to: Is it still raining out there?
I stop and think. 'I can't remember.' But it's not that I can't remember; it's because I didn't absorb it; it wasn't important.

You see, a grown-up woman would know if it were raining. She would consider that a piece of vital-to-know information. She'd have a sensible coat or an umbrella!

Yay, I'm not really grown-up! I don't have an umbrella. I hate umbrellas.

I can be Peter Pan - in my head - a little longer.