…to my best friend, who told me she would marry me if we were both single at 60.
When we’re 60 and wrinkly and funny and old,
We’ll get married – and how everybody will scold!
We’ll be the scandal of Colombo (or should we move out of town?)
There’ll be finger-pointing in public but we’ll just laugh them down.
Our house will be mad – can you imagine the mess
Of art and trinkets and shoes and dress?
We’ll have some cactus in the garden – there can be no doubt.
Music will play all the time and the neighbours will shout.
Dylan, Dave Matthews, Cocorosie, Pink Floyd
Anyone with bad taste we’ll politely avoid.
There’ll be mirrors all over, each with a different frame,
It’ll be crazy, it’ll be cluttered but it’ll never be lame.
We’ll have a cupboard especially for clothes that are godey
When we’re sad we’ll dress up and laugh our blues away.
There’ll be sunshine and music and laughter and noise
And – if we have a pool – maybe even a porpoise.
The porpoise would dance and play underwater,
We’ll have hundreds of dogs, no need of son and daughter.
You’ll paint, I’ll sing, we’ll cook and clean
But it’ll never be a chore; there’s too much fun in between.
With us a broom will never just be a broom
But an excuse to sing “Big Mistake” while we’re sweeping our room.
Flowers will bloom on all our window sills,
We’ll save up all our money in funny little tills.
We’ll pick some of those flowers and wear them in our hair,
We’ll spend some of that money on scarves to wear.
We’ll have friends around us all the time.
We’ll have spaghetti carbonara and tequila with lime.
At this rate, my darling, I fear I am sold –
I cannot WAIT to be 60 and wrinkly and old.