Old, Older, Oldest.
A moment ago,
while making a pot of coffee, I caught sight of a mug that I received as a present for my eighteenth birthday lurking at the back of the kitchen cupboard and came to the worrying realisation that
this happened sixteen years ago.
My kitchen is a
hotbed for such reminders. My noticeboard has an advert pinned to it that
my parents placed in the local paper to mark my 21st
birthday, back in 2002. Next to this, a Beatles-themed calendar celebrates
the fiftieth anniversary of 'Help!', on which a photo of the band smiles back, none of whom were twenty-five when the album was released. On the adjacent
wall, there’s a framed poster for the show in which I made my professional début nearly fourteen years ago. I may
as well carry a device that counts down the time to my advancing middle age,
reminding me of how close it is at thirty-minute intervals.
I know I’m being
melodramatic; I’m not old yet. Plenty of people would
scoff as they read this blog and dismiss me as a whipper-snapper; the local paper that ran my parents' advert thirteen years ago said exactly this the other week. While I’m far from applying for an OAP bus pass, it’s alarming to note
how quickly time has passed. It’s when I start remarking on how young doctors look that I really have to worry.