Life

My 20 goals for 2020: Read Proust and Dostoyevsky, book in for a colonoscopy

It is sobering to think how someone discovered an antibiotic, eradicated small pox or brokered peace in a far-off country in the time span it took for me to eat my weight in cake and drink a small swimming pool in gin

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann

Nuala McCann is an Irish News columnist and writes a weekly radio review.

Marcel Proust – my other half tells me there are a number of volumes
Marcel Proust – my other half tells me there are a number of volumes Marcel Proust – my other half tells me there are a number of volumes

GWYNETH’S candle that smells like her vagina takes me to the fair. Love Island takes me to the fair. “That takes me to the fair,” is an expression favoured by my mother and her mother before her.

But to spend a hefty £58 on a candle marketed by the blonde, beautiful but decidedly whacky Gwyneth Paltrow – a candle with a tag that reads: “This smells like my vagina” makes me ask myself just how many people have more money than sense.

I can understand why Chris Martin consciously uncoupled from her. Makes scents really... sorry, couldn’t resist.

Sometimes I have to talk to myself to ensure that I’m not turning into Mary Whitehouse. But if you know who she is then this suggests that you are of a certain vintage.

In work the other week, I said: “Oh dear, Nicholas Parsons has died,” only to be met by the vague comment: “Never heard of him.”

Where I used to turn to features first in the papers, now my eyes stray to the obituaries and to totting up the years people got.

It is sobering to think how someone discovered an antibiotic, eradicated small pox or brokered peace in a far-off country in the time span it took for me to eat my weight in cake and drink a small swimming pool in gin.

I am forever trying to tot up how many people make it to their 90s. Suddenly, 68 seems way too young to depart this Earth.

Time’s winged chariot is hurrying near and there’s no ringing the bell on the bus to get off.

I never liked older people who rolled their eyes at me when I was young and fond of white wine and bad boys and gold headbands and a ra ra skirt. Now I’m older, I certainly don’t want to be seen in a gold headband but I don’t want to be one of those tutting the younger generation. They’re brilliant, they’re sassy, they’re fun and they have been gifted a world that doubles as an enormous rubbish tip where they work zero-hours contracts.

But let us not dwell. Embracing new experiences is where I’m at. I am now completing my 20 list for 2020. These are 20 goals for the year that can be anything from reading the complete works of Dostoyevsky to booking in for a colonoscopy... which both seem equally painful.

One of my 20 goals is to read a book I should have read.

“I think this will be my year to read Proust,” I tell my other half.

“Are you kidding? It’s huge,” comes the reply.

His mouth drops. He tells me there are a number of volumes. I never knew that. But I’ve vowed to start so I may have to finish. You need a few goals.

My 2020 also includes taking such care of my teeth that the £2,000 implant will not have to happen, and new experiences.

“Today is your best day,” I tell our friends on a recent night out.

This year heralds a series of significant birthdays. We are making plans for a gypsy jazz festival and, perhaps, a weekend in Paris where all that Proust should serve me well enough to order a bottle of vin rouge and a wink from a waiter.

My suggestion of a hot tub in the back garden with fairy lights goes down like a lead balloon.

My other suggestion of the Game Of Thrones escape room – an hour of glorious terrifying fun, perhaps blindfolded, handcuffed and gagged – goes down like cod liver oil.

“Winter is coming,” I tell them. “It’s frigging freezing. Old age is not for sissies.”

We’re seeing a lot of it up close and personal these days and those who navigate it with courage and laughter deserve a medal.

“When it’s your time to die, I believe the people you love come for you,” a friend tells me.

I tell her that I’d like to come back as a bird – the kind that hits sunny climes for the winter – but, knowing my luck, I’ll be a cockroach. Still, her words linger and I imagine those we have loved standing, waving at us from a far off shore.

The too-young, laughing girl robbed of her future; the young mother who never got to see her children grow up. I see my father and my godmother... all of them waiting.

And wouldn’t it be so beautiful if they came to take you with them?