I wrote that last post utterly certain that it was how I was feeling, that it was an accurate account of me, that I meant every word. It was only a day later that I started to think that I didn’t really think that way, and that it wasn’t really the way I was feeling (or rather wasn’t really the cause of why I was feeling how I was).

Why am I so confused when I’m thirty-sodding-three? At what point does life and your head settle down and accept things as they are and make the best of them.

Sure, it’s not ideal. I was walking back from shopping today and wondering at what point did I become that middle-aged bloke I used to sneer at not so long ago. Trudging around with shopping bags and a whiney child. Doing the expected Saturday thing.

I am that man.




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