When punk – and I use these words advisedly – ass teenagers look with pity or disdain on the middle-aged, they might say I don’t want to get old and fat like them, thinking perhaps that old and fat are the same thing, or that gradual weight gain comes from a turgid, settled life. Well, it just about makes me want to shake those little punk asses. There’s no complacency here, nor a paucity of imagination. If there’s a lack of thought it’s by design, a balm to the competitive chafe of logistics, roads not taken and that worrying velvet catkin on my testicle; I guess Olympic catastraphizing is nothing. Just how could middle-aged spread speak of comfort when we are so full of demons? Don’t you think they’re hungry?!
Sonia Dauer