The other day I found my first my grey hair.
This ageing malarkey is bullcrap. I didn’t sign up for it. I hoped to be like the Peter Pan of Pop Cliff Richard in every sense, except for NOT WANTING TO BE THE LEAST BIT LIKE HIM; I don’t need my voice to sound like I’m constantly using one of those old-fashioned vibrating-belt slimming machines. Stop singing airily, Sir Cliff; give it some oomph for once.
I know I’m not decrepit, but I’m still further along my personal timeline than I would like. I’m two years older than Jesus was when he died, and where are my devout followers? I've got 876 on Twitter at the moment, but I can’t see them setting up a religion in my memory, even if I came back from the (Eph)grave.
While I joke about it, it’s strangely unnerving to spot changes in my appearance. I’ve been very tired lately, but that doesn’t explain away the lines appearing around my eyes, or my subtly altering hairline. This grey hair takes the biscuit. Tommorow, I’ll buy an OAP-style shopping trolley.