Summertime Grumps

Balls to summer.

Thanks to it, I no longer have a valid reason for not being out and about. I can’t complain about the weather and stay in, I am expected to expose my middle age spread to the neverending stream of pert, hairless and oiled bodies that flock like manicured shitflies down every inch of tarmac.

"100% genuine teenagers"

In the park today I saw 3 girls (as in ‘not legally women’) who were impossibly beautiful and the bastards made my heart and lungs momentarily fuck up. I am allergic to perfection, see.

Once I could breathe again,  I wanted to stamp my feet and shout “it’s not fair!”. I refuse to subscribe to that idea of beauty anymore. I watched the Model Agency and I thought: When I was the same age as those models I was a fucking moron- why should they be my ideal? Grow up, make some stupid mistakes, get some frown wrinkles and then I might respect you enough to want to be you. Down with youth- up with experience! I need to retrain my brain…

Otherwise my remaining 40 years on this earth are going to be crap.

What is the point of not being young? (note to self: I need to work this out before I go mad).

"Here's to the olds"

Having said that there was a sixth-former punk girl on the bus with orange hair, and she spent the whole journey rolling a fag in the most drawn-out, self conscious way possible. I find it heartwarming that young people still smoke- I thought they had died out and been replaced by sensible, gym membership, nice new clothes stepford youths who never put a foot wrong.

For the past 2 clammy days, a flab of students (their collective noun) has taken residence on the decking outside their house. They look like a Gaz, Baz, Daz and Tony to me. It is quite comforting to hear them whittering away inanely, doing what normal people do, while I lie here in bed in the middle of the day analysing them. But another part of me wants to run down and shout at them:

“Don’t you ever wonder who you are?! Don’t you ever doubt the you-ness of you?!”

Tony, Gaz and the boys would look at me with pity and cackle like hyenas as soon as I turned my backl. And so they should. I’m a fucking freak and I should be on a leash.

Yesterday I woke up and grimaced at the blue sky, and dragged my body to the walk-in wardrobe to work out what the hell could cover my elongated frame today. As I tried clothes on, I thought;

“No, that’s too scruffy”

and then a second later

“wait a minute- isn’t looking like a tramp good?”

Not having Esther there to reassure me, I had to eventually resort to exactly the same soiled outfit I had worn the day before. I need someone to spike my coffee with valium, dress me, and march me down to the busstop every morning. Any takers?

Speaking of which, here is my favourite song about busstops:

And I recommend this to anyone considering waiting for a northern bus:

“Avoid alighting on Ecclesall Road if you wear second-hand clothes”