Too Old For Ecstasy, Too Young For Lawn Bowls

What does it mean when
you suddenly start getting
frumpy clothes mail order catalogues?
Or worse, Plus Size collections?

Do you know the art of invisibility
when you’re waiting amongst
racks of low rise, distressed jeggings
at Top Shop,
avoiding eye contact
because “No it’s not for me;
I’m with her.”
Then your daughter emerges
from the changing rooms
wearing a belt for a skirt?

And a month later
you pinch it for
a Sixties themed reunion do.

Have you ever caught yourself
humming along to Take That hits
with gusto at Sainsbury’s,
and find shelf stacking staff
smaning at you?

Do you ever tell your offspring
that NO - neither Cliff Richard,
Santana, Sergio Mendes,
nor Neil Sadaka; nor Barry Manilow,
not all of The Mamas and the Papas,
or The Beach Boys
are dead yet, even if
Karen Carpenter is?
And no, you were not born
during the Russian Revolution?

How do you explain
substituting a Sunday fry-up,
or a ten ounce sirloin - medium rare -
with six multivitamins,
nine essential nutrients,
echinacea, Omega three fish oil,
cider vinegar extract,
plus a wheatgrass shake??

Do you go upstairs,
only to come downstairs again
to remember what is upstairs?
And fail to recollect?
Can you recline in the bathtub
and read small print
propped up at the tap end?

Do you bemoan the fact
that the traffic’s too fast,
but the roads are too slow;
how malls are too vast,
and queues are a throng;
that time has zipped past,
but your nights linger on;
how day breaks too soon,
and you never sleep long?

How do you, Rebel Rouser, Flower Child
make your days count now,
when all you count are the minutes
before you need to get up from
your aisle seat for the airplane loo
for the fourth time in two hours?