PicoBlog

It looked like a hell of a bash. Victoria Beckham’s 50th birthday last weekend included a Spice Girls reunion, with David Beckham on cameraman duties recording a raucous dancefloor filled with a bunch of fiftysomethings having the time of their lives to “Stop”. At the end of the night Victoria exited the party at Oswald’s members club in sunglasses by way of a piggyback from her husband. 

I love seeing scenes like this. I love knowing that the parties don’t end. It’s been something I’ve been aware of since I was in my twenties, always wondering, ‘Is this it? When does the fun dry up?’ And at 41, things have slowed down a bit, an inevitable byproduct of much of my circle having small children, so it’s good to know that women a decade older than me still properly let their hair down. 

This isn’t meant to be insulting to older women, as if I’m surprised they can wrestle themselves away from Netflix to enjoy a night on the tiles. I just find it comforting to see older women out having a really good time. It’s the same reassurance I felt watching Sex and the City, which came to an end when I was 21, and allowed me to be excited for my thirties rather than fear them. (I can’t say that And Just Like That is providing the same service for me and my next decade but I guess they have aspirational homes?)

Really the Beckham shindig shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me. Last summer I attended my first fiftysomething party, hosted by a couple at a huge house in Hackney. I envisaged caviar hors d'oeuvres being passed around while someone tinkled on a piano. I panicked about what to wear. But I was not prepared for what I was met with when I walked in. Because fiftysomethings, it turns out, can party. 

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