I’m back in my hometown again this week with the family. OH travels home first thing to crack on with the decorating- and I’m hoping that recording it like this will ensure it really happens- while the kids and I stay on to enjoy some time with my parents.
We were given a free pass this afternoon to spend some grown-up time wondering around the city, while the Grandparents took the kids to the beach and fed them ice cream so pink that it could probably be seen from space.
As we strolled, I was doing that thing where you unconsciously look out for people you knew when you ‘really’ lived there. Don’t ask me why, despite the fact that I officially left at some point in the early nineties, I still somehow expect to see familiar faces on every street corner.
Stopping for a coffee I glanced around, mentally totting up the number of vaguely familiar faces I’d seen- that would be none then. And then, as I looked around at all the middle aged folk: harassed, slightly rounder than they should be, barking at their children and generally looking stressed I realised that I’m one of them.
I’m no longer part of the munchkin brigade, looking slightly unwashed but resolutely unashamed about the fact, prowling en masse outside Macca D’s, heading to Andy’s Records to see what’s what en route from Head in the Clouds.
I’m Old. Well, I’m older than I think. I can’t go into Jane Norman or Miss Selfridge without looking like I’m shopping for a younger family member…..and I refuse to shop there anyway….that is soooo not a 10!
What went wrong? When did the late thirties happen? And why do they feel so old?