Memoirs of a Madman*
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.