Saturday, 22 September 2012
Forever forty something . . .
Of course, it's a load of old nonsense. Under a particularly harsh light (thank you gents toilets, at work . . .) I observed the knackered-looking face, bloodshot eyes and slap-head hairstyle. But enough of the bloke standing next to me. No, in reality that middle-aged mug in the mirror was mine. Phsically, there is no getting away from it. OK, so I drag my weary carcass down to the gym a few times each week but it's only putting off the inevitable. I may as well cut to the chase, shove a Fray Bentos pie in my gob and don a pair of tousers with an elasticated waist.