I’m reading a rather flimsy regency romance novel as a little light relief between more heavy going books.
It’s one that’s going to be turned into a movie – on the strength of the recent popularity of TV shows like Bridgerton rather than on its own merits, I’m guessing. I don’t want to sound a snob – fun and joyful books certainly have their place – but this one is distinctly lacking in charm.
Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about today. The parents of the central couple have just met for the first time during a house party at the gentleman’s country estate, and all of them are younger than me.
The prosy parson and his comfortably plump partner – parents of the young lady – as well as the rather intimidating dowager duchess – the widowed mother of the landed lord – are all fifty or younger. I can remember being a young teenager when I first discovered this genre of books, and thinking it was going to be years before I was the age of the heroine. And now suddenly, just like that (to paraphrase Carrie Bradshaw), I’m old.
Well, I’m certain I’ve talked about this before, so you must excuse the repetition. It comes with the territory, I’m afraid. Even in the trashy romance novel I’m thinking of writing, the lead character is around 35. Is there even a genre of romance based around the retired crowd? Is there a vague ick factor to the whole idea? Hmmm – It seems I have as much work to do in my attitudes to older folk than anyone.