A long distance broadcast from Footballer's Knees...

>> Tuesday, 28 January 2014

... who you may remember as my sis, and who is much much funnier than I am.  Nowadays she no longer blogs but posts on fb under a different name, and is as entertaining as ever.

Here's one of her recent posts, to which I can only add 'what she said...'.  (And 'why can't I write like this?')

A few things we are not warned about on reaching our forties:

You get angry in a queue just because someone near you has an annoying voice. And the inflection they use at the end of a sentence makes you want to commit murder?

Fat just rushes to join your stomach and triple boobage. You can put on half a stone over Christmas just through eating a few After Eights and a couple of peanuts, despite going to the gym for FIVE days in a row.

Tepe brushes - the instrument of the devil and the invention of a Swedish masochist. It's like a crime scene in your mouth when you've finished.

And speaking of teeth - you need to allow an extra 20 minutes each night for cleaning. By the time we've reached mid forties, we've invested more in our teeth than in our kitchen so need to spend extra time fiddling with brushes, retainers and various solutions whilst staring soullessly into the bathroom mirror and wondering how life got to be this way.

You shout at news reports that quote Tweeted reactions from 'celebs' to validate the stories and add extra interest. Who cares that Harry from One Direction is very sorry to hear about the death of Nelson Mandela? Who cares?

You get angry just because someone is wearing annoying hipster spectacles.

You start to 'invest' more in lottery tickets in a desperate bid to end the relentlessness of a job you certainly didn't discuss as a possibility with your useless Careers Advisor thirty years ago.

You realise that there is no such thing as a cheap holiday now because you refuse to book anywhere less than 4 star and won't use an airline that doesn't reserve seats. Or share a pool - the last holiday with a shared pool resulted in you getting up at 6 every morning to reserve the sun beds so that you could be a far away as possible from that annoying family from Birmingham who turned the whole area into a Grazia, OK and inflatable crocodile strewn family compound and who discussed Fifty Shades in excruciating detail whilst applying Factor 2 Carrot Oil to their husbands' hairy backs.

You look around at your peers and wonder why they can still drink a bottle of wine/wear cheap onesies without embarrassment/go out for 2 nights in a row/enjoy going out for two nights in a row whilst you struggle to stay up past 10.30 at night and won't step foot in Primark.

And then you realise that you need to get a grip, lighten up and embrace the choices and opportunities that life offers you before you turn into a sad old lady who shouts at strangers in the street. Although you will never, ever wear a onesie.


Iota 28 January 2014 at 08:45  

Oh, but think of the positives. You are confident enough to stand out against onesies, and not buy one. The younger generation will not only have horrible memories of them (until they also become retro, like the 70s and 80s fashion disasters have), but will also have a plethora of dreadful photos of themselves wearing them. The selfie and the onesie. It's a terribly unforgiving combinationie.

Clare Taylor 28 January 2014 at 12:16  

Iota and LCM, so what you're saying is that today's Onesie is tomorrow's Christmas jumper? Interesting...

London City (Mum) 29 January 2014 at 15:39  

Or tomorrow's oversized baby-gro (which, let's face it, is what they really are).


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