It’s wrong on so many levels to want to drive a car again…
I HAD an odd experience today – I woke up fancying a drive.
Actually, the first thing I thought was: ‘I need to book a car and take the cats to the vet’.
But I fancied driving.
For once, the thought of getting into an automobile and not on a bike, settling back in a comfy seat instead of perching on an inadequate saddle, and not having to do all the leg work myself gave me a warm, happy feeling, rather than a shudder.
Drivers are currently a severely endangered species in this house. Three of us are old enough to set off for a spin whenever we want, but we hardly ever do.
The main reason for that is that we’re Londoners. We don’t drive to work. That’d be silly.
The buses, trains and Tube all run fast and frequent where we live and, anyway, I am semi-permanently joined to my bikes; a middle-aged, sweaty, semi-centaur.
The other reason that we don’t drive much is that taking to the wheel in the capital is horrible.
I may be middle aged, but apparently I can still raise my brow game
I WAS WATCHING some soothing Golden Oldies on The YouTube today when I found myself unexpectedly lectured – by a series of irreproachably groomed young women who were waving some sort of pencil at me.
It soon became clear that they were flogging a product aimed at achieving The Perfect Eyebrow, a pursuit that seems to have taken over from achieving World Peace, or Abolishing Poverty, on many young ‘uns To Do lists.
I watched, too transfixed to reach for Skip Ad, as said babes exhorted me to ‘Raise your eyebrow game…. Raise your eyebrow game… Raise your Eyebrow Game….!’ and, blushingly, I wondered if it was not too late for me to do just that.
For some time now, I have been afflicted by Grandad Eyebrows – those sort of horned, sky-seeking tufts that blow in about two decades after Moobs and maybe 10 years before plugs of hair start to clog your actual earholes, like the unknowable contents of a blocked gutter.