Alone and aging

It's Sunday evening, one of the times I hate the most. Sundays are like Christmas Days, or worse still Boxing Days, when everybody takes a very well deserved rest. But come tomorrow it's work again. My house is still, except for the odd cat purring or running a staircase marathon. It's so quiet I can even hear the subtle creaks of the bricks and mortar. I usually love being on my own, but I hate it today. I am also not getting along with some people because it seems I am forgetting a lot. My memory isn't what it used to be, it's old age creeping on me like a silent thief. Why don't we realise the beauty of youth when we're young. We just want to be 18 because that, in the eyes of the law, makes us adults. Then we want to be 21. Then 25. Then suddenly we hit 30 and it comes as a shock. And suddenly we realise we're not far from being called middle-aged. And that means that half of your life has gone already. Not cool. And it's the only time when having a twin of the opposite sex really is not such a good idea after all, because while men, like wine, get better with age, women should simply be stuck at 27. And it's one time when being around kids is a blessing, because kids think I'm 25. And I let them think that, because it's unfair to burst a child's bubble isn't it?