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.