three nine

How the hell can I be thirty nine today? How can I be starting my last year as a thirty something? When did I go from Bright Young Thing to Grumpy Old Geezer? Where did the last ten years go? Seems not so long ago I was turning thirty and thinking, eh? How did I get to be thirty one day? Then I thought, hold on, I spent half my twenties at college and there was a lot of, shall we say, ‘diversions’ along the way, so forgetting some of it was understandable (didn’t stop me getting a good degree, mind you, talent will out! Even if half sozzled). But that doesn’t explain why I can’t quite recollect all of my thirties going past. I have to re-read old blog entries on the Woolamaloo Gazette to remind myself of what I was up to half the time.

I can’t be sliding towards a middle aged man,
Because I know secretly I am Peter Pan.
Years go past and my body gets older
But not inside my head,
Friends and family and books
And laughter and delight
Still keep my soul well fed.

Oh well, thanks to a secret combination of Boots moisturiser, virgin’s blood, fine malt whisky and the creamy Celtic complexion I got from my mum I can probably pass for 38 :-). Funny, my dad is set to retire on his birthday at the end of February and he was saying how odd it felt because in his head he didn’t feel older or like a man who should be retiring; it is one of those things you notice as you get older, you don’t feel older inside. Well, I don’t at any rate. I know some people do, or else they let society dictate to them to ‘act their age’ and you can see the result not in the lines on their face but the tiredness in their eyes. I don’t. I’m as happy to run through a pile of fallen autumn leaves and kick them in the air as I was when I was ten, I still get excited and roll around laughing at Tom and Jerry cartoons (oftimes with my dad) just as I always did (usually with my dad again, neither of us outgrew that and why should we?), I still grab a stick and draw on the sand when walking on the beach, I still love being taken for an ice cream by my mum and dad. What’s wrong with any of that? If you think that is immature then you are probably right but you’re also a sad, old, shriveled soul; you need anti-aging cream for your spirit.

That’s how you don’t get really old, dear chums – bollocks to all those hideously expensive ‘anti-wrinkle’ creams rich old women buy and face lifts (I know, easy for me to say, you think, since I have lovely Celtic skin and am pretty much perfect already) the real place you get old is inside, but only if you let yourself. You can’t do much about the outside because Nature always has her way in the end, but the inner part, that’s up to you (harken to me, folks, now I am an Old Man I am Officially Wise! Yeah, you’re right, maybe not…). Now if you will excuse me I am off to finish my champagne and dance around the house with the cats to a new Nouvelle Vague CD I was given by Mel. Have a good New Year’s everyone and keep on bloggin’ in the free world, see you on the other side.