I have just remembered what I really wanted to write about today. And this message goes out especially for my young niece, Stephanie, a day away from her first wedding anniversary.
Today, slumped on the sofa, where I am able actually to look out of the window at a lovely view (as opposed to remaining slumped in bed and not being high enough to peer through the garret bedroom window) I noticed a hair on my pointy finger (I think that’s my index finger, but it doesn’t really matter which finger it was). I brushed it away with my thumb, but as I lifted my morning coffee to take a slurp, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, it was still there. Thinking it was just another bloody cat hair, I again brushed it aside with my right hand this time.
The third time I saw it and rubbed at it, I was forced to get up and go find my reading glasses. Hells Bells, it wasn’t a bloody cat hair, but one of mine that had suddenly sprouted to an unacceptable length.
I accepted the tuft of hairs that sprouted, temporarily, on my thumb after I’d smashed it with a hammer that time. They went (I’m just double checking). But this is just a joke. Is this part of growing old? Is this the last laugh of your hormones? I’ve always been paranoid about sporting a “moustache” and am now forever checking my chin for “stray long-ones” but no-one thought to tell me that hitting 50 was tantamount to turning into a werewolf.
Sorry, Steph, just wanted to let you know the future fun that’s in store for you – it’s something your mother probably should have told you but hides a guilty secret!