The Dotage Diaries – The Gradual Decline

I am not entirely sure when your dotage officially begins.  I suppose it is a gradual process.  You start finding tell-tail signs around the house.   Opening your fridge door to find your confused but well fed cat suffering from a mild case of hyperthermia or when you start leaving your bunch of keys in the car door when you go shopping.

  Don’t invite crime by encouraging strangers to take your car and walk into your home. 

Fortunately, on both occasions, I was shopping at Waitrose, the bastion of groceries for the middle classes, according to Michael McIntyre, so they were there when I got back.

There is nothing good about getting older.  Like memory loss.  I know all the answers to the Times 2 crossword this morning, but I just can’t remember them.

Weight gain, I used to have a waist but it barely exists now and the wintry looking brittle strands of my hair that used to be blonde is the final insult.

White blonde? No?

Some mornings I look in the mirror and find another blemish has appeared on my face over night.  Another age spot.  These Marmite-coloured manifestations come in a various shapes and sizes.

Marmite coloured manifestations

I have also had a few eruptions of a crispy consistency on my face.  I scratched the last one off.  It hasn’t come back, yet. As a teenager I never suffered from blackheads or pus-filled pimples so I suppose I am paying the price now.  Other mornings I wake up and my joints seem to be swathed in invisible straight jackets.

I have no control over thse things, they just happen, but at least I am still in control of my bladder, except when I laugh hysterically.

It’s only when I laugh





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