Time is such an arbitrary concept, isn’t it. I mean, I understand the way we measure time, with the passing of the sun and the turning of our planet. But our experiences of time are as varied as we are.

Like when new parents discover, “The days are long but the years are short.” It’s so true, but how does that work? Or, do you remember how the summer holidays used to stretch out when you were little, so long that you could barely remember the person you were at the start of the holidays, and no matter how you filled them, you were absolutely and completely ready to go back to school by the time they were done? And how now, that same period of time - six weeks in my case - seems to pass before you can blink?

And, why do we look on other people’s times through rose-tinted glasses? We are Gil in Midnight in Paris, a man of our time who longs for (and comes to experience) the Paris of the 1920s, the artistic heyday of Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and Picasso. Or are we Adriana from the same movie? A woman already living Gil’s dream life, yet yearning for another era altogether, La Belle Epoque, when Tolouse Lautruec, Paul Cézanne and Vincent Van Gogh were changing the face of art for their contemporaries.

My husband and I like to binge-watch historical dramas on Netflix. They evoke both the romance and brutality of another time - we are transported to the dawn of the Viking era, the court of Genghis Khan, Tudor England, the American Civil War, or Birmingham after WWI (and apparently everyone throughout history was extremely good looking, and had excellent teeth).

Last year, deep in a covid-lockdown winter, I gently and quietly passed a milestone birthday. My family had planned some BIG celebrations, all of which had to be cancelled due to the lockdowns. I wasn’t sad (well, only sad for my husband who had gone to so much trouble on my behalf): for my introverted soul, not having a big party in my honour was more of a relief than a loss.

But that didn’t mean I wanted to ignore the birthday, to deny the passing of time. Birthdays, and especially milestone birthdays, can herald in new eras. In the months that have passed since my birthday, I have caught myself slowly, softly, changing. It hasn’t been conscious or deliberate, but more of a gentle embracing of what this new time in my life means. What it means to my health, my habits, and how I see “the future” now that I’ve probably already lived for more years than I have yet to live (boy isn’t that something to think about!).

I’m always drawn to old things, and old places. I like that old things hold stories, stories that began before me and hopefully will outlive me. I want to live in old houses, I like to visit old towns and cities. I like holding old things in my hands, even if they are simple, everyday objects like spoons or books. I sniff the pages of old books and think, “I wonder how many other people have been lost in the worlds of these pages, just like me?” Even better if there’s an inscription in the front of the old book, or notes in the margins.

And now it dawns upon me that I am becoming an “old thing.” And I like it! I don’t feel the need to compete with youth, as I once did, to try and stop time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ready for the zimmer-frame yet: part of embracing this new-old me is to accept new ways to take care of my body and mind. But I’m totally ok with watching Father Brown and Antiques Roadshow, and admitting this to you.

All of these thoughts tumbled around my mind as I wandered through the lovely old town of Chiltern yesterday, clutching a grocery-bag of cheese, crackers and mandarins to sustain the family on the final leg of our journey from Canberra to Melbourne.

I like old things. So I’m learning to like old-me.