I’m getting old. Very old. Not only am I grumpy, I’m old. Shoot me now. Put me out to pasture or just send me to the glue factory. I am old.
The reason I say this is largely the fault of my cousin. We were at her birthday party on Saturday night and as her friends started to drift in, fashionably late of course, it struck me just how old I am. There I was, surrounded by nubile young girls and all I could think was “ohhh, they’ll catch their death..”.
Hmmm, that last sentence makes me sound like a dirty old pervert, sitting in the corner of the hall, my seedy little eyes roving for glimpses of flesh. For the record we were NOT sitting in the corner of the hall.
Where was I? Ohh yes. I can safely say I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many short skirts and platform heels in one place. At least not since, errr… that night in that.. er… club place thingy. I know it’s all the fashion these days and I’m all for people expressing themselves but it was -3C outside! Mind you, I’m sure I was that young and foolish when I was 18.
In saying that, I can’t remember my 18th birthday in particular. Ohhh god, now my memory is failing.
Add that to the dodgy knee (it’s knackered again) and the increasing propensity of my use of the mannerisms of my father – something else that was pointed out to me on Saturday night when my other cousin said “ohh you looked just like your Dad there!” – and I’m as well to call it quits and find a nice quiet retirement home.
Mind you, Friday night saw me on a work night out and again I was one of the last to leave, the younger whippersnappers (ohh god, did I just write “whippersnappers”?? Shoot me now!) all left well before chucking out time. Kids these days, no stamina.
And no, I wasn’t drunk, tipsy a little but quite in control of my senses thank you. In fact, as I wandered to George Square to get a taxi home, I can distinctly remember seeing a group of girls standing around outside a nightclub and thinking “ohhh, they’ll catch their death…”.