Saturday, October 11, 2008


I blame that Mrs. Pouncer. Actually, it's not really her fault but I'm happy to lump some of the responsibility on somebody else. But she did claim that I am of a certain age in the first place.

I went to visit one of my friends a while back. I noticed that she had lots of photos of a pretty young woman dotted all about the house. Given that she'd gone through a messy divorce and was deeply embittered about men I wondered out loud if she'd decided to dip into a different selection box for a change.

"That's my daughter!"

"Should she be wearing skirts that short at her age?"

"She's 21."

This came as a considerable shock. It's very difficult being Peter Pan when your contemporaries insist on having grown-up children.

Things got worse when one of my friends mentioned that his son was coming up to Manchester to study at university.

"He's a bit advanced educationally isn't he?" I asked.

"He's nineteen."

"Bollocks, it was only a couple of years ago he was literally knee-high."

"That was ten years ago. Face it man, you're as old as me and we're nearly fifty."

Nearly fifty? Nonsense. Lies. Not true. I have older siblings who are not yet fifty so I can't possibly be "nearly fifty". No. I am, in fact, a slip of a thing of twenty-five.

"You weren't twenty-five when you were that age," he tells me.

It's true. Some mornings I wipe the blood off my face and wonder who the old man is who's looking out of the shaving mirror. In some lights my hair looks almost grey and a day's shaving stubble makes it look like I've fallen victim to some fungal disease.

And what have I done with all that time and opportunity?

What an utter waste.


Mrs Pouncer said...

Kevin, I am just in from a disreputable bar in Reading, so not entirely sober, but I want you to walk towards me, slowly, arms outstretched, visualise me as Fenella Fielding in her prime, wait for me to finish this Tyrozet, and then accept this great big Frenchie as a poor consolation prize for a life that feels hollow and uninteresting.
In the morning, however, the paperboy will have delivered the Observer, only slightly damaged and the colour supplement missing; you will make some coffee,the sun will shine, and all will be well. Clarissa xxxxxxxxxxxxx

scarlet-blue said...

Hello leather puppet.


having my cake said...

You're in your prime, man!

I have to agree that it is most disconcerting to discover that there are people within your social circle who are young enough to be one's grandchildren. I remind myself of this frequently when I am unable to match certain feats of flexibility or stamina... and then I up my exercise schedule accordingly!

As they say, youth is wasted on the young! Let's all grow old disgracefully x

Kevin Musgrove said...

Mrs P.: Such kind thoughts, though I fear that I would be trespassing on Dr. Maroon's territory!

Ms. Scarlet: You're right, it works!

Ms. Cake: I was never in my prime when I was. At least days I can blame my clumsy fumblings, such as are allowed, on my arthritis.

Mrs Pouncer said...

Oh don't worry about Maroon. He's incommoded, or rather completely commoded, since the accident. In a truss and a foul mood. He doesn't know where I am half the time, anyway. CLdeM P xx