I’m getting old.
The evidence is irrefutable.
No, I haven’t found any grey hairs and my laugh lines haven’t reached the point where I need spakfiller and a trowel to smooth out my skin.
It’s worse than that.
Much worse.
I’ve started to pop.
I pop things away. I pop things in. I pop things on. On occasion I even pop things under other things. I wish I could say that was the extent of it, but alas no. I’ve started to pop down to the shops, pop over to visit friends; I’ve even popped out for a minute.
Nobody under forty pops anything or anywhere.
What next?
A blue rinse and an excess of cardigans.
Hmm. It is a cool-ish morning. I might just go pop on a cardigan.
