The Gradual Decline


It is a gradual decline, a slippery downhill slope from middle-age to your dotage. I'm not sure when your decrepitude is supposed to start, but I fear the tell-tale signs have been following me around for a while.

It's just small things - I haven't quite got to the stage where I open the fridge door and find my confused but well-fed cat suffering from a mild case of hyperthermia. It's more like leaving my bunch of keys in the car door when I go shopping. Fortunately, on both occasions, I was shopping at Waitrose, the posh place to shop, according to Michael McIntyre, so they were still there when I got back.

There is nothing good about getting older. Middle-aged spread takes over your svelte waist and rock-hard stomach, taking on the proportions of a well-filled potato sack. The wintry looking, brittle strands of hair, which used to be luxuriously blonde, and gone are the days I knew all the answers to the Times 2 crossword. I still know the answers, but I just can't remember them. Sigh.

Every morning, when I look in the mirror and see my mother staring back at me, another blemish on my face has appeared overnight. Age spots? Marmite-coloured manifestations come in various shapes and sizes, and not just on your face. As a teenager, I never suffered from blackheads or pus-filled pimples, so it seems I am paying the price now. I wake up with stiff joints and fatigue, and yes, I suffer from Autoimmune Disease, which has taken its toll, but I can't hold it responsible for my inability to remember what I watched on TV last night. 

I have no control over these things, the weight gain, the forgetfulness, the facial degeneration, and the double-chinned selfies. They irritatingly seem to happen. But looking on the bright side, at least I am still in control of my bladder, provided you don't make me laugh.