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(Old) Man in the Mirror.

It wasn't until I cleaned my bathroom mirror today that I realised how much I'd been relying on the Robert Redford-like blurred smudge that had developed on it to hide a multitude of sins.

It was like I'd switched from low-to-high-def in just a few wipes.  At least I was living in unwitting denial before I reached for the duster and polish; now I've been brought up to speed in double-quick time. Within minutes I've been thrust into how the other half lives: those poor bastards who are subjected to my face daily; I pity them,

I won't lie: it was a shock. I didn't know I'd grown so haggard. Consequently, having my reflection thrown so suddenly into focus was a game-changer akin to Bruce Willis realising he's dead; I may as well have stumbled across a partially-submerged Statue of Liberty for the damage it did to me.

No-one told me about the bags under the eyes, nor the grey hairs. No-one said I'd start putting on weight. And yet here it all is like a bolt from the blue; if I start whispering to horses, someone please help me.

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