Puerility

My mum once banned the watching of Blackadder on the basis that it was puerile. This was a touch harsh on a number of levels, the most important being that 1) I was a child, and therefore it would be very appropriate for me and 2) no it bloody wasn't. It was occasionally bawdy, and seldom but sometimes scatological - but no more than the average Shakespeare comedy. Fortunately, mum has now seen sense and views BA as a comedy classic. Indeed she denies using the word with regard to Mr Adder, but given it was the first time I'd ever heard anyone use it and I had to go and look it up, she's not getting away it that easily.

We re-edit reality to suit us all the time. I have a few Indian friends who are now trying to suggest that when they predicted a 3-1 kicking of England by the India team they were kidding. Yes, that will be why you bet a tenner on it. And how many psychopathic mass killers do you know who have totally sublimated their murderous impulses and have no idea at all how many blondes they've killed in their bathtub until they find bloody hairs in the plug hole. Honestly, it happens all the time.

Take this very morning - I reported to my Beloved that a male friend (known here as TLSoM) had made a Facebook posted which asked "Have you seen Bridesmaids? It's actually very funny." Since she has seen and liked the film, her response was the slightly testy "oh, he's surprised it's funny because it's a bunch of of women, and women can't be funny, is that it?"

I gently reminded her that her reaction to the trailer before she had seen the film was something like "Christ, they've tried to make some sort of female version of The Hangover - that looks awful".

I still haven't seen it. It looks puerile to me.

Degenerate

I'm degenerating. It's like being Doctor Who, but instead of turning into Matt Smith I just turn into a fractionally older version of me, one that gets sore thighs after climbing long staircases or has weird niggling pains that won't go away even though there's clearly nothing actually wrong.

It's one of the joys of creeping up on 40. I'm still trying to work out whether the aching shoulder joints I'm getting in the morning are because of a new mattress (which is otherwise extra comfy) or because my body just can't handle sleeping on its side any more and is rebelling. I could be facing a whole new era of sleeplessness, since I can't sleep on my back (and sleeping on your front is frankly weird).

But I can't let it bother me. If I get worried about this, what will I have left in the tank to rail against the fact that my last tooth has fallen out and that tourists keep mistake my legs for the tube map?

Maybe ageing won't be that bad, and rather than look in the mirror and be disgusted by what I see, my perceptions will adapt and I'll be vaguely revolted by how smooth and shiny young people are, as if they were blank-faced aliens or were all in the process of very slowly being suffocated with white plastic bags with eyes drawn on them. Perhaps we fall apart so slowly that we only really notice when a doctor takes one of our legs away and refuses to give it back.

So I shall ache in a more upbeat fashion. For a little while.