Getting older. It hurts to know the accumulated wisdom of the last 50 years means virtually nothing. I am not done with being young yet, how did this happen? The mental signs are bearable, really; slight aphasia, lack of concentration, chaotic thoughts. No change there. But physically? Like some dumb canute I try to hold back the rapid tide of age. Every day a new pain or a new manifestation of my descent into a useless bag of flesh, a new sign of decrepitude. At least my eyesight is so crap I can't even see some of these things until it's too late. Nature's cruel trick, to make us feel confident and happy in our own skins, shortly before making them resemble the last apple in the fruit bowl. Those crepey sagging eyelids can't flutter sparse lashes to get favours, those creased and dry lips can't blow kisses at strangers on trains, that dry bush of hair no longer to be tossed coquettishly at men in uniform. I am becoming invisible, slowly but surely. Like a fool holding the rope of a Hot Air Balloon, when do I let go and fall gracelessly to my fate? That velour tracksuit beckons seductively from the rails of High Street emporiums, telling me to let it go; stop holding the belly in, stop wearing mascara, stop caring. I am not ready for that, and I won't go gently. So expect the hair to get more scarlet, even if the hemlines and heels creep lower rather than higher, and the necklines vice versa. I will just stop looking in mirrors.
