Journal Monday 13 December
So I guess it's not a sprint but a marathon, but...
I was in the hairdressers today, getting a haircut. There's a bit in the hairdressers, before the actual haircut, where someone else comes and washes your hair for you. Today the lucky person washing my hair for me was a girl I've seen before, and who I've shared war stories with about how long the bus takes to get into town. The bus takes quite a long time to get into town. Some days, it can take as long as two hours.
Anyway.
She's eighteen. She was talking about how she wants to learn to drive, and go travelling, and settle down, because time's going on and she was telling herself in the mirror the other day that she's getting older. And the thing is
She's eighteen.
I mean, I know I look considerably younger than I actually am, which is nice because it allows me to get away with things that I otherwise wouldn't, like getting IDed in popular high-street bars and fending off the inevitable approach of middle age. But I'm 28. I'm a decade older than her. I haven't gone travelling, really, properly, or settled down or learnt to drive. I've had a good year this year — I'm proud of what I've done — but Christ, this conversation made me feel old. I dunno, maybe I'll live to be 150 years old or something and this'll all even out. Given my trenchant atheism, it better had.
But yikes, though. Twenty-eight. Slightly upsetting when you put it like that.
I was in the hairdressers today, getting a haircut. There's a bit in the hairdressers, before the actual haircut, where someone else comes and washes your hair for you. Today the lucky person washing my hair for me was a girl I've seen before, and who I've shared war stories with about how long the bus takes to get into town. The bus takes quite a long time to get into town. Some days, it can take as long as two hours.
Anyway.
She's eighteen. She was talking about how she wants to learn to drive, and go travelling, and settle down, because time's going on and she was telling herself in the mirror the other day that she's getting older. And the thing is
She's eighteen.
I mean, I know I look considerably younger than I actually am, which is nice because it allows me to get away with things that I otherwise wouldn't, like getting IDed in popular high-street bars and fending off the inevitable approach of middle age. But I'm 28. I'm a decade older than her. I haven't gone travelling, really, properly, or settled down or learnt to drive. I've had a good year this year — I'm proud of what I've done — but Christ, this conversation made me feel old. I dunno, maybe I'll live to be 150 years old or something and this'll all even out. Given my trenchant atheism, it better had.
But yikes, though. Twenty-eight. Slightly upsetting when you put it like that.
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