Catching up on a backlog of entries from Richard Herring’s excellent blog, I came across this entry, which made me (a person of roughly the same age as Richard, although seemingly with less grey hair) laugh a lot. Especially this bit…

The other day I chanced across my first passport. There’s a photo of me in there when I was 17 or 18. I was actually surprised at how thin and attractive I was. I always thought I was nothing special and remember thinking I was fat as a teenager (but then I didn’t realise how far it would go). But I tell you, I was gorgeous. I’d have done me. And in fact I did. About three times a day. Because no-one else seemed to want to.

I know exactly what he means. I don’t feel any older (mentally or physically) than I did ten or fifteen years ago; if anything, I feel younger in certain ways, because adulthood seems to have given me, in lieu of the tight-lipped, controlled responsibility you’re supposed to get, an even worse tendency to be totally blasé about anything that’s not globally terrifying. Oh well.

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