Tain't what you're doing

Adventures of the mobile and static kind

Sunday, 19 April 2015

Realising you're middle-aged when you look younger than 30 is not quite as comforting as it sounds

    Today I spent at least an hour standing in the middle of a theatre space untangling a coil of cable that has somehow managed to work itself into something resembling a badly knotted PVC-based set of dreadlocks, without even the joy of being able to imagine it belongs to some Jamaican beauty. I have been here so many times before, and yet today I looked out at my colleagues for the day, my comrades in arms and I realise that I am older than any of them by at least 10 years. I wish I was exaggerating in some way.
     I have been deknotting things unrelated to Jamaican beauties now for 13 years and I have gone from being the youngest by 3 years to the oldest by a decade. How has it slipped my by that I have not progressed from not giving sensual pleasure to a fantasy in a 10CC record? How has it come to be that the people I work with now think 10CC is a new type of Smartphone?
     My father's younger brother, John died this week having only just turned 70. My father, and his brothers all die at this age more or less. That makes me, at 37 well into the second half of my life. And when white people give me the look of surprise when I tell them I am that age I still get a ridiculous sense of joy. Ah yes, I may look like I am only old enough to do menial tasks in dark theatres, but actually I am old enough to not be. I just by pure coincidence also happen to be doing those very things.
   I leave the theatre and try to find something, some token of joy out there in the world that will stop me from just ending it all. Instead I see a copy of the Daily Express with another front page spurting forth more bile about immigrants, right next to a story of a policewoman with 32JJ boobs and another about Prince Harry showcasing just how great Britain is.
  I try not to get aroused by the policewoman.
And then I see the sign, something that will prevent me from stabbing myself in the eyes with the nearest party campaign manifesto; a young child with her mother telling her how it's okay to eat fish because of all the Omega 3 in them. My heart swells in the knowledge that at least there's one more person less likely to have heart trouble.
   I decide that I won't stick my head in the oven just yet. I just hope that the little girl won't vote for UKIP when she's older.