Age stalks me like a persistent toddler, it scratches at my face leaving lines in its wake and it leaps on me wrapping me in its shroud, always when I least expect it.
Like last week in Tesco when I found myself transfixed by a pair of tarten slippers, they called to me in a voice that once belonged to Jimmy Choo. They looked simply luxurious, the pattern would compliment any Pyjamas and the fur trim could only mean heaven for my corns. I stroked them for a while until a youthful store assistant started to look at me in an odd manner. I even put them in my trolley with full intent to buy until suddenly age spotted a Victoria Sponge and left my body for a moment and I came rapidly to my senses.
But age has started to take roots in my body, it controls my fingers when I gently turn the radio down to a gentle hum, it manipulates my choices when I switch from Radio One to the tender throes of Classic FM. It has taken over my eyebrows as they rise through their own will when I see skirts up girls arses and read text messages written in a language I cnt spk.
Age is also changing me, I found myself booking a wax at the local beauticians and rather than opting for my usual half leg wax I suddenly veered at the last minute and went for the full face. No bugger sees my lily whites but it is clearly time to admit that plucking one’s chin is not really tweezing a rogue eyebrow.
In the office I got excitedly into a debate about the benefit of slips, and I was arguing in favour of much to the confusion of the office junior who was simply clueless as to what we were referring to…
I no longer expect to get a full night’s sleep, my problem is not un sleeping children but more a tantruming bladder which cannot manage more than a couple of hours without demanding attention. It is age, not me, that looks at shopping bags on wheels as objects of desire.
Put simply, age is a bit of a git.