I find myself on the edge of old age. Sitting indoors on a sunny day to watch the snooker, a sport I’m not all that interested in, sipping on coffee. I’ve even downloaded a copy of Wuthering Heights on my phone to read in a bit. I already have the paperback version, I’ve now gone digital and, somehow, it doesn’t feel right. Old age.
Of course, I’m not really that old. When you are old you stop moaning about old age, you accept it, and instead talk about how good you feel for your age. I guess, anyway. I’m talking nonsense.
In reality, I’m currently bored out of my mind. Floor layers are in laying carpet and conversation is simply asking every 20 minutes, “Would you like a cup of tea?” I have become a Brummie, 28 year old version of Mrs Doyle from Father Ted.
I’ve killed some time writing this, none of it probably interests any of you but, well, it kept me occupied.
Now I’m gonna go…the carpet is fitted and I need to vacuum.
What was I saying about old age?