Tuesday, 12 January 2010

My Father's Footsteps.

I am very, very old. This is something that hits me, maybe not every day, but certainly every week. It's shit. You young people don't know how lucky you are. You drink and smoke and laugh and watch Skins (are the kids still into that?) and take drugs on trains and get all up in our faces thinking that you'll be like this forever. YOU WON'T. Soon you will be as decrepit and twisted and dusty and useless as me. HA!

It seems like it was only yesterday that I was putting on my leather biker jacket, brushing my mullet and heading down to the local dance-o-rama in the hope that I would just get rejected by girls instead of beaten up by boys. Good days. I was reasonably fit and healthy and had my whole life ahead of me. Of course, I did fuck not nothing with it. I made sure that I whittled my health down to dribbling and wheezing and steered my life speedily towards arse. Well done, me.

I'm not really complaining about the state of my health or my bollocks, bollocks life. Things really aren't that bad. It's just I've recently had one of those moments that remind me that I'm not young anymore. Even though my house is a shrine to a children's TV programme and a big space film, I am in fact 41 years of age. A grown adult. It doesn't really suit me but that's what I am. Sometimes I get these little reality checks about how old I am and I want to run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut and listen to Powerslave by Iron Maiden. Middle-age doesn't understand me or my music.

What happened was a shock. It was a slow, creepy shock not a surprise-HA YOU'RE DEAD shock. It just crept up on me without me seeing it, like a vampire smoking it's way in through your window. It was crap.

My Dad wanted to get rid of a pair of shoes that he bought but didn't like anymore. He offered them to me and instead of looking a bit embarrassed and making up an excuse about how I don't have room in my suitcase for shoes I just said thanks and took them. I even wore them. I liked them. They're nice.


I never even wear my shoes never mind my Dad's shoes. I wear trainers specifically designed to make people think that I MIGHT still be able to skateboard without them knowing the truth that I could never ever skateboard. I was always very scared of the ground. The ground seemed too fast and the board was wobbly and I couldn't do it and now I own my Dad's shoes. There. That's my autobiography.

The thing is, I really do like the shoes. I said yes to them because I like them. I even wear them. I wear them when my Dad's not around. I just HATE the fact that I like them. They're not mine, they're his. My Dad's. But they are nice. Nice and comfy. Yes, I'm not used to the heel on real shoes yet and they make me feel like someone is gently pushing me from behind when I walk but they look OK. Like something a grown up would wear. A grown up like me.

It certainly explains why I now ask complete strangers for shoes. Tell me you get these moments. It can't just be me? Is it? Don't you feel "old" sometimes? Or at least stupid that you think you're old?

Sorry. I always get this silly when I miss my nap.



Scott said...

Comfy shoes are only the beginning. Soon you'll discover that you have a favorite chair!

Anonymous said...

or a favourite liver-spot or unsightly growth