Buffday Blues

Fortyfuckingnine this time.

Last time I moaned about getting old someone retardedly warned me to ‘Just wait till you’re 67’. I suppose, if I do get that far, I’ll be of the persuasion to moan at those younger.  Even now I’m tempted to go through the stories about the horror of hitting 30, or 40 and say HA! You ain’t seen nuthin yet. 

But I won’t.

Has 48 through to 49 been a good year?  Have I felt much of it feeling exquisite?  Hmm.  Best if I don’t think about it.  There’s a slate I can wipe, a book I can close, a file I can shred.  I could flick through the pages of my gratitude diary for ideas...

Got this far. 

To a friend I confessed I was hoping to feel more triumphant. I’m making a little bit of an effort and going on what might be a rash adventure.  A long drive (football on the radio), perhaps some seaside existentialising (murky water and an arse sore from pebbles always leaves me brooding in a Byronic manner); then some socialising (dinner with Pete (most excellent geezer), Craig and Emma (he a clawhammer banjo playing Samsung techie, her a very funny, seems to love me, teacher of children), and then who knows what after that.  The murky world of substance misuse might make me primordial and morose, or I might end up screeching through ‘I bet you look good on the dance floor’ at the local pub karaoke.

There’ll be the chatting of ****.  New tunes will be played.  Badinage and flights of foolishness, mixed with helpful insights, will keep me up way past my bedtime.

There’ll be the *ouch* Miner 49er hangover, headpounding thoughts about trepanning, ibuprofen, and another long drive, before being welcomed back into the bosom of my family.  The presentation of gifts I allow them to buy me – Hemp Oil and acoustic strings, mostly.  Done, next. 
 
Anyone who knows me a bit will know I like to mark occasions with Atmosphere tunes

 
I’m guessing the several minutes of silence after the tune is for the words to sink in.
CrookedMan CrookedMan
46-50
Sep 14, 2012