You know you're old when

...policemen, doctors, plumbers look young enough not only to be your ex boyfriends (and I really did meet the little brother of an old boyfriend while giving birth the first time - literally he was in the hospital, between my knees, breaking my waters., being a senior registrar..) but fresh faced enough to be your sons. But what's going on when headmasters look young enough to taken across your knee... ?
R returns to his old boarding school for a reunion with his mates which after much ribald emailing and liaising from places as far away as Vancouver involves getting together a rowing eight and racing, in front of an entire boat house full of boys and staff and posh parents, against the current, eighteen year old, strapping, handsome, scrumptious crew. Not that I have eyes for anyone other than my well preserved husband and his pretty prime peers, of course, their silvery hair glinting in the sunlight, arthritic knees creaking up and down the slide, overworked muscles heaving as they row away perfectly in time and, eh, what’s this, actually pull ahead of the whippersnappers in the other boat? No indeed, I’m busting with pride as they come off the water, having come second after all, and I dash about as the oldsters’ official photographer to catch this day digitally forever.
Anyway, the race only lasts about six minutes thank the lord and it’s into the boat house for beer and burgers. And speeches, but they all relate to the current triumphs and honour and glory of the school and R and his mates are far more interested in reminiscing about being caned, making apple pie beds and climbing over the walls to visit the girls from the school down the road. Funny to think how all those beehive toting, white plastic boots wearing, mini skirt daring floozies must now be sturdy matrons with grey bobs and puffa jackets.
This particular sturdy matron is actually wearing sparkly harem slippers today and white linen trousers as it’s a hot day. And I’m afraid I’ve heard all those anecdotes before. So after chatting to a very posh mummy of about my age who has a hunt ball to go but weirdly has braces all over her teeth (well, we're all in search of eternal youth, aren't we?), I accept a drink from a handsome young man in a blazer and tell him about my own sons and their current school and how their father longs for the dosh that they may follow in his footsteps to his alma mater. The young man waves his arm around the chic wooden boat house and the even chicer parents and says, ‘Well, they have bursaries here, you know.’ For the sons of impoverished old boys? ‘Always worth a try, especially if your boys have other skills and talents.’ I stroke my chin flirtatiously. ‘Any other ways I could try to charm them into giving us free places?’ I chortle. ‘Raid the headmaster’s piggy bank, perhaps?’ He ponders this for a while, smiles, fills my glass with Pimm’s, looks at me long and slow in the eye, and says, ‘Well, why don’t you email me next term and I’ll see what’s in my piggy bank?’