I am confused by my age.
Confused by my 52 complete years.
Confused because.
I sometimes think that if I tried hard to write a list of everything I’ve done in all that time.
Thing-by-thing.
Week-by-week.
Year-by-year.
Decade-by-decade, even.
It’d be really hard.
Because I’d be regurgitating tens of thousands of occurrences.
Hundreds of memorable occasions.
Seemingly endless anecdotes.
Yet at the same time.
I am not sure I’ve done very much in my life.
I am not sure I’ve done very much at all.
Age.
I was 10 years old when I learned that you could light hairspray with a match.
Paul Harrison’s mum was a hairdresser.
Paul taught me that.
And it was Paul Harrison that introduced me to pornography, too.
Again when I was 13.
When he handing me a single piece of paper.
(Silently.
One eyebrow raised.
And with a half smile).
One single page.
Torn from.
I think.
Fiesta.
A page of letters written by men.
About women.
I devoured every word.
I remember reading the stories to myself on the smoky top deck of a double decker bus once.
It felt daring.
Confusing.
So if I can remember little detail like that.
From 39 years ago.
How come I find it hard to remember the big things?
How come I’m sometimes not sure I’ve done anything at all?
Nothing interesting.
Nothing worth mentioning.
From my 52 complete years.
It’s very confusing.
Life.
Life is lovely, really.
All of it.
If I care to remember.
The achievements.
But the silly things as well.
They all shape us.
It was Fred Rogers that very often encouraged we adults to remember,
You were once a child too.
And whilst I am sure that Mr. Rogers was not referring specifically to setting fire to things and wanking.
It’s good advice.
Because you have done a lot in your life.
If you care to remember.
And you can do a whole lot more, too.
