Chips With Everything

I am old. I am so fucking old. Last Friday I turned 57. Fifty-fucking-seven. Nobody wants to be fifty-fucking-seven, except that the alternative doesn't sound like much fun. So there we go. As I was walking up the hill (listening coincidentally to Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush) into work on Friday, I realised it was ten years to the day that I will be of pensionable age in the UK.

How did that happen? In my head I'm still a vaguely youthful 30-something, with a waist, and enough slightly slutty beauty to turn heads.

I should not complain too much. I celebrated my birthday with a young man (no, not like that) who bought me dinner and then took me to a casino.

They say every seven years, the cells in your body are completely replaced. Which means that the person who came to Belgium in 2012 no longer exists. Of course, I still do sort of exist, but the replacement cells are all a bit droopier, with only a homeopathic memory of what my face and figure should look like.

But this bunch of newly-minted saggy cells can still have a good time. I have no idea if I won anything at the casino because I was really quite bloody drunk (thanks to some industrial strength margaritas at the restaurant). But I was happy, and safe, and with someone nice. It was a good birthday.