Fighting the visible signs of ageing

I’m getting on a bit, aren’t I?

I mean, look at that picture of me up there. You may have been thinking of words like “thin” and “fashion”, but probably only if “on top” and “disaster” are added immediately afterwards.

There is good and bad in this. After fighting it gamely for years, there is probably little more satisfying in a man’s life, than finally reaching the point where you suddenly realise you just don’t give a damn about anyone else’s opinion of you any more.

On the other hand, there’s that desperate, lingering death of your sense of decorum and style, as you frantically try to convince yourself, friends, colleagues and anyone else unfortunate enough to come into visual contact with you, that you are still, resolutely “with it”. Sadly, the “it” in question is usually a massive confusion over what you think is trendy, and what actually IS trendy.

This can be detected by increasing use of bold colours and wearing clothes that look good on someone half your age, but make you look like you’ve raided a teenager’s washing line after getting confused on the way to the loo at 2am, and locking yourself outside, butt naked. Again.

I seem to have not yet swum ashore to roam the lush fields of blissful, uncaring, wear-what-the-hell-you-like-ness, and am still splashing hopelessly in the shallows off-shore, whilst dark waves of poor fashion choices wash over me, each one leaving me more pathetically garmented than the one before.

Before the final tsunami washes me inland, to a place where slippers with tassles are thoroughly acceptable, and socks with sandals are positively encouraged, I recently purchased a pair of trousers in a moderately fashionable store, the cut of which is so “now”, the crotch appears to be significantly roomier and lower than I was expecting. Oh, and they’re a sort of faded, smokey, burgundy colour. I know. I regretted my purchase approximately half a second after the second digit of my PIN was entered, but it was too late by then. The young assistant was already eyeing me suspiciously, and probably had the Fashion Police on autodial.

It also occurred to me that other people this side of forty I’ve seen wearing trousers of this hue are usually about 70, and called Neville or Quentin.

Couple this shocking choice of legwear with some other things I noticed about myself this week, and it’s fairly safe to say I’m very close indeed to the last, hopeless, decision before finally the dimming spark of life in the dark corner of my brain labelled “in touch” gets reallocated to worrying about that cat being in the back yard again.

Here they are then – brace yourselves, it’s not pretty reading, but you’ll see what I mean:

I rediscovered how gorgeous and life-affirming custard is.
At a horticultural show (which is bad enough), I found myself thinking “my courgettes are bigger than those!” without any hint of innuendo, only genuine, vegetable based envy.
I ironed a duvet cover.

See what I mean?

This post first appeared as my 'Thank grumpy it's Friday" column in the North West Evening Mail on the 30th of August 2013, where it was retitled "New trousers were regretted", which completely reverses the position from last week, where their title was better than mine. You can view the version used by the paper on their website here

It received a whopping 48 word edit this week, and the whole bit about raiding a teenager's washing line vanished, along with the end of the courgette section. And for some reason, they replaced "tsunami" with "wave".

If you do want to see the picture of me the column refers to, feel free to nip over to the paper's website at the link above, but make sure you're sitting down, and haven't eaten anything recently.

My heartfelt thanks to you for popping by and having a read of my columns here. Until mid-month, it looked like I was heading for my lowest stats for a couple of years, but the last two weeks have boosted the numbers back to around my average. Some days it's a bit dispiriting writing stuff without knowing if anyone is actually reading it, so even if you're a 'bot - thanks for taking the time to drop in!

I'm currently having a touch of "Why am I here?!" with twitter, so am a bit quieter than usual over there. Generally, it's a bit of a low mojo time for me, but you never know what's round the corner, eh? Maybe a wandering national newspaper editor will pick up a local paper on holiday, and sign me up for thousands of pounds based on what he reads.

Or not.

(Early XTC on the stereo today - 1979's "Drums And Wires".)

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