Time waits for no man,
Or so I am told-
The subtext suggesting we’ll all grow old
If we are lucky enough to survive
The multiple rigours of modern life:
The chaps with the challenge of baldness and worse
And women facing outcomes just as tough to reverse
While from this fragile inevitability
Emerges an entire industry
To propagate ideas of eternal youth,
If you think about it, an unfeasible truth
Given that time stands still for none
From the very first moment we’re each begun.
Milestones, trials and tribulations
The underpinnings of every great nation.
So how then this misaligned disposition
With Youth and Age in direct competition?
In fevered pursuit of flawless good looks
The kind that would place potential lovers
In fear of what may per chance be discovered
Should things progress with intimacy
And artifice, like onion skins, peel away.
Caught between confidence and battle dress,
The judgement call to circumvent distress…
To plan ahead a little contrived,
But, hey!- we all need a way to survive
And if it’s true that on the whole
The eyes are the windows of one’s soul,*
There’s really not much room for manoeuvre.
Though always best
To be seen
To have hoovered…*
*My dad quoted this phrase often when we were kids…(!) – attributing it to Shakespeare.
*Never discouraged from being ‘creative’ as a child, I have an unbounded capacity for mess which could so easily be attributed to genetics. My mum taught me (by passive acquisition) that it’s only ever worth doing housework when expecting visitors…