Last week I went to Gatsby’s party with a group of friends. New friends. We met through a writing class and, like good underwear, have been both uplifting and supportive. We had talked about The Great Gatsby in class and, by chance, a production came to our local theatre. It turned out to be an immersive experience where we were welcomed into sub plots and subterfuge around the building. Some of us were dragged deeper into the plot than others; the details of what happened at Gatsby’s party will remain at Gatsby’s party. Suffice to say, we all joined in but we were none of us totally shamed. The evening may have been fuelled by a little gin and possibly a bubble or two of prosecco; but the spirit of shared laughter was the driving force of the evening.

Then, a change of note for the weekend. I went on a retreat. To a special and sacred place in Northumberland. For a couple of years now, it’s been my habit to take trips up the A1 to a place where big questions of life can be asked and reflected upon; with answers evolving slowly rather than given upon demand. There are always friends there too; sometimes friends of old acquaintance, frequently friends newly met. It struck me that, whether at Gatsby’s theatrical party, shattered as it was by tragedy and sadness, or at a humble refectory table, laughter and tears are both best taken with friends.

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In the midst of a busy week I caught up with Mary for coffee. It had been in the diary for quite a while. We live in the same town. We very occasionally meet by chance. Usually on the station platform, which may give rise to a full half hour of chat on the train. An unexpected bonus, even if I had planned some reading time on the journey.

We first met as school gate mothers, finding a bond through our daughters. The girls have largely gone separate ways, simply through the progression of life. As empty nesters, we made an active choice to remain friends.

Having pre-arranged meetings is not quite the same as that regular quick chat in the school yard waiting for the release of the children. But, we are developing the art of sitting for an hour or more over a single cup of coffee. There is a quality to the time we spend together, unhurried, both in the moment, enjoying the luxury of shared pontification.

The agenda rarely revolves totally around our offspring. It is just as likely to feature books or articles that we’ve read; and, as depressed Guardian readers, to shoot off in tangents of despair when we cover the state of the political environment.

For me, the best feature of my friendship with Mary is that our talk is never competitive. We do not try to the busiest, the highest achieving or to have the most successful offspring. We have different interests: she does not run and has never been to the gym. She loves solitude and I am always flattered that she wants to spend time with me. What we share is a desire to see the funny side of any circumstance. Aging with Mary is great fun; by degrees we are turning into wise old women (WOW) and I hope that together we can laugh our way through the next decade.

I went to the bank last week. I walked down James Street passed the closed or closing shops. I thought that my Gran would barely recognise this once fashionable street. The smart, individual stores replaced by generic chains, now themselves receding into the past. We blame the council for high business rates and expensive parking; the landlords for rents that the retailers cannot now afford. We blame the online stores for under-cutting high street prices. I know that I have also contributed to these changing times, tempted by online discounts or opting for the convenience of home delivery.

My Gran would have been mystified by the bank. No Mary Poppins set here. The mahogany and marble banking halls are more likely to serve craft beer and coffee now. This bank is bright and clinical; its walls lined with cash machines. It is lunchtime, a single cashier at an open counter faces a long queue. I opt to deposit my money in the machine. It looks like the quicker option and I am on my way to a class at the gym.

It’s all touch screen. So I touch the screen to start. It wakes up. ‘Do I have cash or cheques to deposit?’ I have both. The automata cannot take both in the way that the smiling counter staff can. I separate them and start with the cash. There is whirring and grinding within the machine. I imagine it is the goblins in their carts, surfacing to collect my gold. I deposit my cash. More whirring and grinding as the cash is carried to the vaults and a receipt is generated for my records. Do I require another service? Yes I do, I need to deposit the cheques separately. That done, I am free to go. I pause only to confirm that the queue at the counter has not fully dispersed whilst I battled with the machine. It hasn’t. I smile at the customer greeter, grateful for a small element of human exchange in the transaction.

I’m really enjoying being 60, it’s something to celebrate. It feels like the start of a new phase of life. I am surrounded by 60 somethings, full of energy and enthusiastic for new experiences.  60 doesn’t seem to be what it was in the ‘60s.

To me, my Gran was always old. Born in 1895, she would have been 63 when I was born in 1959. She had lived through two world wars. Her week revolved around Sundays, baking days and laundry, her day around household chores. She did not have central heating, so each day began with clearing out the grate, setting and lighting the fire. Whatever the weather, her daily warm up exercise involved carrying a bucket of coal along the back yard. She lived in the North East of England, so the weather could be harsh.

She never learned to drive, they didn’t own a car. Most weekdays she would walk the mile or so into town to shop, stopping along the way to talk with friends and acquaintances: members of the townswomen’s guild, former colleagues of my grandpa’s from the Inland Revenue office. Often she walked home again carrying her shopping in a smart leather and tweed bag: this predated the age of plastic carrier bags; sometimes she returned by bus.

Wash day was a major upheaval. The Parnall single tub machine would be dragged across the kitchen floor to stand by the sink, attached in a Heath Robinson fashion to the tap, the outlet pipe clinging to the edge of the sink. The stone floor would frequently be washed as an unintended consequence of the process. The wet washing would be carried down the yard and hung across the cobbled back lane, another opportunity to stop and talk with neighbours.

She lived to be 92. Sadly, her mind did fail her in later years. But her life to her mid-80s was full of functional activity, with no time or need for gyms or running clubs. My days see the household chores as something to fit in, time permitting, around the rest of life. Daily laundry looks after itself overnight in an automatic machine. Heavy shopping is largely done online and delivered to the door. Smart shopping bags have made a comeback. In the post plastic bag age, we reward ourselves for shunning the litter and pollution that resulted from half a century’s dependency on the plastic bag. As a child, I can remember an element of celebration that this product would last forever: now it’s a major cause for concern.

Today, with every intention of living my 60’s to the full, I look at my mother and mother-in-law and wonder how 90 will feel from the inside if the world and I survive for another thirty years.

I haven’t always been a runner. Cross country running was my teenage nightmare. The sight of the running track was torture.  The final countdown, 800m…400m…200m, on the home stretch of any race measuring distances that a younger me found quite impossible.

Mid-forties, on a bit of a whim, I signed up for a Great North Run charity place. I reasoned that, if other people could do it, maybe it was within my reach. I did have some old trainers, but I did not own a pair of running shoes. On Mother’s day 2005, in the knowledge that I had six months to move from being a reasonably fit non-runner to running my first half marathon, I set out on my first run. I went out early in the morning, confident that I would be out and back before anyone noticed that I had gone. The cold March air hammered in my lungs as I wheezed and gasped my way to the top of the road. I was ready to give up and go home. I might have done so but for a cheery ‘Good morning, are you off for a run?’ from a neighbour returning from an even earlier dog walk. Somehow I staggered on, managing to keep some sort of running motion until I had turned the corner. With more walking than running, I stayed out for 20 minutes that first day (completing a much shorter distance than I had planned). Day after day, over the next few weeks I built up to covering a 3 mile route, learning to set off more slowly and to keep going at a steady pace; encouraging myself to run just to the next lamp post and then to the next before I allowed myself the luxury of walking a short distance.

My lack of running shoes took its toll. Excruciating pain began to hit my shins and Achilles tendons. I was ready to give up, but the public commitment and the charity place kept me going. A trip to the running shop diagnosed my pronated feet as needing extra support. Equipped with my new supportive running shoes, I maintained my training and managed to complete my first half marathon.

I realise now that I have been running for almost a quarter of my life. I hear myself saying that I’m only doing a couple of ten milers this year and I am aware that I am no longer a novice. In just six months, I had discovered the thrill of running. From sneaking out in the early hours hoping not to be seen, I had begun to identify as a runner and learned to welcome the greetings of friends and other runners as I go. There are also the occasional white van hecklers; but, firmly wedged behind the steering wheel, they cannot spoil the sheer joy of a long solitary run.

Running uphill into the wind this morning, I found myself thinking, not for the first time, how running creates metaphors for life. Climbing the familiar hill, I knew that, despite the temporary struggle, the gradient would soon level off and a turn in the road would lead to shelter from the gusts of wind. Picturing the Celtic blessing: may the road rise up to meet you; I was even managing to convince myself that I enjoy running uphill.
It’s been a bit of a struggle to get myself out of the house and run this year. Last year I achieved the major milestone of running my first, and probably my only, marathon. Training through the hottest summer since 1976 was not easy; but the prospect of the 26.2 miles motivated me to work at getting the first 20 of those miles into my comfort zone. To run long distances before the day became too hot, I needed to set the alarm early and to be out running well before my normal breakfast time.
This year, my ambition is simply to keep running and to enjoy the reflective and creative thinking space that the steady pace of running brings to my life. I don’t have a running playlist and I rarely carry my phone. The time I spend running is, for me, simply a time to think and to enjoy the present.
Without the challenge of the marathon ahead of me, it does seem much harder to take that first step out of the front door. Having used #thisgrannyruns for my fundraising last year, I am determined that this granny will keep on running for as long as I am able. Putting the commitment into words may make it easier to achieve.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Traditional Celtic blessing