With less than three months before the impending doom of the big 3-0 is upon me, the invincibility of youth is dissipating, and fast.
An up close and personal encounter with a fox earlier this week, which less than a year ago I would have openly encouraged, now saw the 29 years on this mortal rock flash before my eyes.
Shadowing my every move, the creature stalked my footsteps along the street, interweaving in and out of gardens and gateways, making eye contact at every possible opportunity, seemingly aware of sheer fear I emanated from my core. This continued until terror took control seeing me bellow “fuck off” in his furry face and sprinting across the street, as the unmoving beast observed before nonchalantly trotting off in the opposite direction.
With my i-pod blaring this curse was far more audible than intended, leaving me laughing hysterically at my own idiocy, like one of the many lunatics frequenting the streets of South East London.
This near miss with death is the latest in a stream of inexplicable cowardice that is taking hold on a former hedonistic wild child.
Crossing the road to avoid the wrath of White Lightning-swigging youths has, I’m ashamed to admit, become commonplace. And not so long ago the joy of being an habitually rubbish, yet fearless ice-skater was knocked on the head when I spent the best part of an hour clinging on to the side of the rink for dear life, despite pleading words of encouragement from a group of Spaniards half my age.
Gone are the days of waking up in stranger’s living rooms, burnt out cigarette in mouth and no idea, nor caring, which direction home is, replaced by the incessant panic that an all-nighter on Saturday will leave me in a zombie-like state for the entirety of the following week, taking the edge off what was once a bloody good time.
Granted it happens to us all in the end, yet still I attempt to battle against the inevitable. Maybe it’s time to give up the ghost and begin to at least attempt to embrace what is the dawn of the age of growing old gracefully.
After all, the alternative is still attempting to live it large at the grand old age of 40 while teens, with complexions as fresh as spring morning dew, look on with a mix of pity and fear that, one day, it could be them.
