THE LONG LUNCH

The joys of ageing are many and various, but most glorious of all is that of the long lunch. 'Come at 12.30', you are urged. 'Just a salad or something, in the garden'. So off you go with a bottle of wine and a sun hat, and a lettuce or a couple of artichokes or a bunch or sweet peas - it doesn't do to arrive empty handed, because you know you will be there for some time. There is no sign of your hostess. You push open the back door, You stand in the kitchen and shout. There is a sign propped up on the table which says 'We are in the garden', but that has been there since her husband died five years ago and is in fact keeping the recipe for elderflower cordial flat. She, not we, is in the garden.

You find her amongst the roses, not deadheading or anything, just standing with a copy of the New Yorker in her hand. She's in the middle of reading a story by Anne Tyler, and can't stop. You return to the kitchen and find the eggs under the weekend's colour supplement and the vet's reminder of the dog's booster jab. By the time they are hard boiled Simone Sekers

 your hostess is back with you. 'Sorry, dearie. You know how it is. She's just wonderful. You must take this back with you'. We take lunch - just a salad - into the garden. We talk about how Howard (her late husband) would've hated to see the lawn so full of those nice blue flowers (we neither of us can remember what they're called), about what Cynthia was wearing to the book club last week. 'I don't know why she bothers. One of the nicest things about Getting Older is not bothering. I save so much time that way.' She is wearing shapeless linen (wonderful stuff, never needs ironing), I am wearing more or less the same; both of us shop at Oxfam. We both have cardigans full of moth-holes draped over our shoulders. Moths are another thing not worth bothering about. The afternoon becomes teatime and we make cups of tea and find some Mr Kipling cakes mouldering in a tin somewhere. 'Don't know how long I've had these. They look OK. Bit sinister, the secret of eternal youth as applied to cupcakes.' Finally, lunch ends with a glass of sherry before supper. Bliss, this gradual letting-go, all this time to spend not having to worry about cellulite or mothballs or lipstick. I can't remember when I've had such a good time. 'My place next week' , I say as I put the key in the ignition and manage not to reverse over a dog.

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