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Ah, the sixties, the age, not the swinging decade. That dreaded biological marker that loomed before me like an ominous spectre. The mere mention of it sends a shiver down my spine, for it carries with it the weight of time and the burden of age. But, in the midst of this daunting reality, I must admit that there are certain unexpected advantages to growing older. The beauty of a sunset now holds a profound significance, a seniors discount at the movies brings a small glimmer of joy, and, if the passage of time has any value, I should possess a certain wisdom acquired through the trials and tribulations of life.

Yet, alongside these silver linings, there exists a shadow cast by the ageing process. My once vibrant metabolism has betrayed me, opting for reverse rather than forward, and I awaken to inexplicable aches and pains merely from sleeping weird. My existence can come to a screeching halt when my reading glasses, quite conveniently perched atop my head, mysteriously vanish into thin air. And… there is a hint of mortality that occasionally wafts in like smoke from a distant fire, triggered by a phone call in the middle of the night which can only mean bad news.

Permit me, my beautiful readers, to introduce my special guest, Leah McLaren. She is more than a guest. She is a three-time published author, award-winning journalist and a G&T-loving friend. And don't we all need one of those?

On Leah's invitation during the deep and dark time of Covid, I boarded a completely empty train and got my ass to a little rustic Welsh farmhouse that Leah had rented. I was attempting to write my very first book, and Leah was pounding out her latest, a poignant mother-daughter memoir, Where I End, and You Begin. "Don't talk to anyone", she warned me. "I mean it, Christina, no one." She was terrified that the Welsh villagers would take one listen to my Canadian accent and, with torches high and pitchforks at the ready, storm the farmhouse and evoke a tiny-town-terror of Covid justice.

When one generally thinks of a breakup, one often imagines a double-barrel, snot-bubbling ugly cry in a dark room, duvet pulled over head, empty ice cream containers littering the floor and lying awake in the middle of the night, imaging all the painful ways he might die. Wait, is that just me? After you have stopped crying and put down the Häagen Dazs, it might be time to reclaim your life (and power).

Most of us can relate to the crushing end of a relationship we swore would last forever. The loss of something big, the mourning of something bigger, what might have been, instead of what was. That's been the trickiest bit for me, in a way. What I thought it was going to be versus what it actually was. I think they call that dating for potential.