Mem­oirs of a Mad­man*

The Peterborough Evening Telegraph - - News -

WHEN you are in your mid­dle years you are al­ways in search of in­cred­i­bly sym­pa­thetic light­ing con­di­tions. But you can’t hang around in John Lewis’ chang­ing rooms all day and so you ven­ture out into the cold, harsh un­for­giv­ing day­light glare of West­gate.

Last week I re­called how I had been de­scribed as ‘proud’ in a photo wedged be­tween my two boys. No one men­tioned my dash­ing, debonair good looks. That’s be­cause they were a fig­ment of my fer­tile, de­luded imag­i­na­tion

From that mo­ment I knew I had stopped look­ing like me and started look­ing like a dad.

I don’t nec­es­sar­ily have an is­sue with this be­cause I am com­fort­able in my own skin. This is one of the few virtues of age­ing in that our de­te­ri­o­ra­tion is usu­ally al­lied to a res­ig­na­tion and con­tent­ed­ness with our slightly crum­pled looks – other­wise known as ‘giv­ing up’.

For those who fail to ad­just to and ac­cept this fa­cial col­lapse there are some fancy al­ter­na­tives.

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