I felt odd when I read that Shirley Temple celebrated her 71st birthday this week. Why, it seems only the other decade she was pert and pretty with ringlets, and now she has wrinkles.
You need to have lived quite a long time in order to appreciate, and it’s a boring truism, but time it don’t half fly.
Okay, I don’t feel 20, not even 40 but I don’t by a long chalk feel any connection to becoming 60. Yet, there it is waiting for me. What’s more it is an age that so absolutely defines a person. ‘Cause once you hit 60, that’s it, you’re a pensioner. A bloody pensioner with a bus-pass and a shopping trolley (okay, I’ve got one of those already, but it’s from Top Shop). Next year when I make 60, will I begin to shuffle and to esteem soft-boiled eggs?
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