When I was younger (old habits obviously die hard and you have to forgive me for not automatically writing ‘when I was young’ — it’s just going to take a bit more practice), I used to find a particular greeting card amusing. It was a cartoon of a demented-looking career woman. She had one hand clutching her briefcase and the other was held up to her mouth in exaggerated dismay. The caption read: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to have children.’ It made me feel quietly smug as I’d remembered to have my three children by the time I was 30 and it was the career I’d opted to shove on to the back burner. I thought I had nothing much to fear at turning 50. It was just another number.
However, logging onto Facebook on the morning of my birthday quickly swiped the misplaced self-congratulatory smirk off my face. I discovered my laptop had been infected by a cruel little virus.
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