VERITY LUSH: I've reached the age at which I wear thermal undergarments when it's cold

Isn't it funny how much our tastes change as we age?

Friday, 16th March 2018, 7:00 pm
Verity Lush has realised that she's gradually turning into her mother

When you’re younger, you assume that this is you. This is what you like, this is who you are. You assume you’ll always feel that way and that who you are is simply not up for change.

Ageing is such a subtle thing and most of it, in our current society, is associated purely with looks.

There’s no doubt that it’s a shocker when your face actually begins to show real signs of ageing, but what about the things we like, or the activities we indulge in, or our priorities?

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Some things are obvious. Kids’ TV, for example, is deeply irritating to the majority of adults.

And tastes in not just TV, but foods also, change dramatically.

If you’d told my ten-year-old self that I’d be happily cooking broccoli for my family, then I’d have laughed uproariously at the mere notion.

However, you can change fundamentally, also.

When I was younger and used to read about how teenagers feel awkward, I never recognised that in myself.

It’s only looking back, from the viewpoint of my 40s, that I see just how true that is.

Because as you begin to age, you begin to care deeply about certain things, and not at all about others.

When I was younger, if someone was upsetting me, or generally unpleasant, I doubt very much I’d have done anything about it other than moan about them to my mates.

These days, I’d be more likely to either try to tell them, defend myself, or simply walk away.

In the main, this is because you know that someone is simply not good for your emotional well-being, but also, you have the maturity not to care, and not to act as though you’re in a playground.

Conversely, you also begin to care deeply about world issues and, I’ve noticed, on a lesser scale, thermal undergarments when it’s cold outside, and covering new sofas or not allowing people to actually sit on them in case they ruin them.

In essence, I am my mother.


The changing rooms of a certain well-known local leisure centre leave much to be desired, as I have learnt, to my horror.

Having been swimming on Sunday, I noticed in the shower afterwards a large clump of mangled hair, attached to the wall like a discarded toupee.

It had the look of someone having flung it there in a bid to remove it from either hand or comb.

The colour and texture of said hair gave an unfortunate connotation of nether regions.

However, what becomes deeply unpleasant is when you return on Tuesday, two whole periods of 24 hours later, and it is still there. Clinging to the wall like an especially stubborn hipster beard on the run.


In my current injured state of not running, I have made a return to swimming.

Given my preoccupation with ageing this week, this is another area where I find myself simply not caring.

The idea of marching out of the changing room, clad in a Tesco swimming costume, wobbly bits wobbling, thighs the colour of barium paste and the

consistency not unlike that of cottage cheese, would have been unthinkable.

I used to swim at the Pyramids in the 90s with a T-shirt smothering me. These days, I don’t care.

Perhaps it’s also in part because I’ve had children. They’ve broken me both physically and mentally, rendering me with the perfect excuse to

look like a lump of Stilton when naked.