Friday, 22 September 2017

Ageing in Ditty Form.

When you look like Quasimodo
And your eyes have lost their glint
And you’re ancient as a dodo
Although not yet quite extinct

And you feel averse to match them
When the young girls sweetly smile
For you know you cannot catch them
If they choose to run a mile

Then you know you’ve reached your nadir
On yon bonny banks and braes
For it is no longer May, dear
But the autumn of your days

And might I just add that these things are all relative. Of course they are. It’s just what happens when you finally convince yourself, against all your natural instincts, that you’re definitely not thirty two any more.

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