A LETTER TO MY 30-YEAR-OLD SELF

As she approaches her 60th birthday, writer Liz Hoggard reflects on some life lessons

- LIZ HOGGARD

I’m looking at a photograph of a 30-year-old woman at her leaving do. She seems happy enough (drunk, excited about the new job) but slightly dishevelled. I want to reach across the table - in motherly fashion - and warn her not to leave her wallet open with all her credit cards on view. The dangly tin earrings she’s wearing are fun, but will give her contact dermatitis. And why on earth is she dressed in severe black? In your 30s your skin still has that wonderful youth ‘glow’. I want to shout, ‘Remember to show your arms as much as possible.’

The funny thing is, that woman is me. I can totally remember being her, but she is also a mystery. As I approach my 60th birthday this August (30 years after that initial photograph was taken), I have so much to tell her that might make her life easier. I know where many of her classic mistakes will lead - in love, friendship and work - but of course she won’t listen. But I’m also proud that, despite all the odds, she will survive.

TRIAL AND ERROR

My generation was born in the 1960s, when life was less liberal. ‘Tough love’ parenting was the order of the day. Nobody talked about self-care or mental health. It was considered vain to worry about your hair or your complexion. Many of us from modest backgrounds who arrived in thrilling London in our 20s felt totally at sea. We fell in love with commitment-phobic men, made epic fashion mistakes, chased the wrong, flighty sort of people as friends.