I’m not sure when it happened – and I’m not sure how on earth it came about, but middle age has come and smacked me in the chops and it won’t go away.
How do I know? Consider the evidence of Middle Aged Man (MAM).
I took a few days off last week and stuck close to home. Wednesday saw me skimming through the market in Bury St Edmunds when I was almost mown down by a Sholley (one of those bags on wheels). Father than mutter something about old grannies and the like, I started thinking how useful they would be to transport veg and the like all the way home.
After poking myself in the eye with a sharp stick, I moved on.
Fast-forward to December 1 and my other half started opening a rather fancy advent calendar containing toiletries. December 1 yielded some top-quality hand cream. A mix of (don’t laugh) gym training, washing up and cold weather has made my (ageing) hands somewhat coarse so I happily spread some on and started purring with delight. The look on said other half was enough to tell me I had officially reached somewhere I should return from hurriedly.
MAM numbers three to five followed rapidly. I rarely leave the house this December without a scarf (No3) and a pair of gloves (No4) and (No5) I’ve started looking at the weather forecast to check if rain is imminent. That’s the cue for rather more stout footwear than any statements of fashion.
I guess the final, sad straw came while paying for goods at a supermarket. Long an ‘admirer’ of the old chaps who have a chuckle with the assistants, I found myself packing a couple of bags and noticed a familiar face at the next checkout.
On leaving, I playfully joked about something or other with this kind member of staff, who was packing another bag.
“You sad old flirt,” came the response from my other half.
And with that, I realised that Old Father Time had, indeed, finally caught up with me as I plonked my shopping in my Sholley, put on my scarf and gloves and trudged off home.