Friday, 8 April 2011

I'm just a young man stolen by time.

Mirrors! I don't like 'em. They always tell the most awful, painful and obviously blatant lies. Whenever I look into a mirror, I see this really ancient and decrepit old bloke looking back at me. Wrinkled as an old walnut and hairier than a bill posters glue brush.
These ugly features taunt me mercilessly. "Who are you looking for John? Who did you expect to see? Don't tell me you expected to see a young John. Well I've got news for you mate. He is gone, and he ain't never coming back. In fact, I have to tell you, things are only going to get worse"!
It's not a lie though is it? It's the plain, simple and sadly unvarnished truth. I'm not going to come back. The young, and dare I say it, handsome young John, has gone forever. Replaced by a rough and ever increasingly baggier and saggier old man. There is nothing to be done. It has to be accepted, because it is the inevitable consequence of getting old. Of course some people, those with perhaps more money than sense, resort to plastic surgery in an effort to stave off the ravages of time. That is not for me though, and not just because I don't have the money. From what I have seen of those who do take the surgery option, it just doesn't work. They tend to end up looking like grotesque parodies of their former selves.
I suppose one option open to me is to avoid mirrors but that is easier said than done. Besides, there are always other ways that you can be caught out. Shop windows for example. I keep on getting unexpected and unpleasant  glimpses of the truth as I pass by. Also, in nearly every shop you go into these days there are the ubiquitous closed circuit TV camera's, with their nosy little lenses attempting to pry into our every little unguarded moment. They have the cheek to ask us to smile because we are on camera. Well I don't want to smile thank you very much. Smiling just makes me look worse than ever. Anyway I find it hard to smile when I am concentrating on trying to remember not to scratch my backside, or pick my nose. Because I know some pimply youth in a back room somewhere is watching my every move.
Now just suppose that I was looking for a woman to share my life with. The thought does occasionally pass through my mind. Usually when I am looking at a pile of washing up or notice the build up of dust on various shelves about the place. Well, how am I to meet the woman of my yearning dreams? The answer is of course that I am not. Unless I join a dating agency that caters for sad old men. Not that I would join such an agency. I have my pride you know. But let us suppose, purely for the purpose of writing this article, that I have joined such an agency, and I have to write an honest description. It would have to go like this. Short, fat, balding, old bloke, with fading eyesight, rheumatic joints and no money would like to meet...
Pretty hopeless isn't it? What chance have I got? None at all.
So here is what I intend to do. Try extra hard in future to avoid mirrors and all those other niggling, everyday reminders of  my inevitable decline, and concentrate instead, on the fact that I have been blessed with a fantastic libido, yes ladies it's true, and that I am still, in my imagination, possessed of the good looks of my youth.

In conclusion. I would like to point out, that the chauvinistic remarks, about washing up and dusting, which I referred to earlier, are only there for comic effect. They in no way reflect my true thoughts on the role of women in society. But if anyone is interested...

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