Time is running out

Oh no, it’s February already! What am I going to do? The days are flying past and I’m not ready dammit.


I have so much still left to do – so little time.

The end is coming.

The end of everything that matters to me.

The end of my mid to late thirties!

I have only 26 days left of being young, foolish and sexy. * As Meatloaf pointed out, “two out of three ain’t bad” * That is not enough time – there is so much I’ve failed to achieve with my youth!

Oh it is true what they say about youth being wasted on the young, I’ve thrown it away completely and totally left myself with nothing of value to show for my all too nearly 40 years on this planet.

NOTHING OF VALUE AT ALL!

Just look at this list of my “before I am 40” failures…

I’m not famous

I’m not rich.

I’m not married to Sandra Bullock.

I’m not a successful manager at work (still very much on the coalface and I suspect always will be).

I’m not living on Richard Branson’s Necker.

I never have and now never will convince more than one woman at a time to – er – play.

I’ve never owned and now would look ridiculous in a Ferrari.

I still haven’t actually written a book.

I still haven’t found a convincing looking wig or invented a realistic cure for my disappearing hairline.

I’ve never dyed what’s left of my hair blonde.

I’ve never been ‘bumped up’ to a freebie first class on an aeroplane, even though I always wear a tie when flying, just in case.

I JUST HAVEN’T LIVED!

All I’ve got to show for those wasted years are countless visits to countries all around the world, occasionally jumping into bed with women even drunker than I was. I still live on ancient memories of sky diving and scuba diving and sitting in awe at the whole of the Universe seen from the middle of the non light polluted ocean at night. All I’ve wound up with is a beautiful, intelligent and loving (if occasionally naggy) wife, two amazingly healthy and brilliant children, who form the rest of my barking mad family. I’ve wound up living in a lovely house with a great garden, within a reasonable commute to a decent job where I work with some very long standing friends. Friends who make work life good, and who give me the adult male conversation and relief that makes the mundane sides of family life bearable. I mean yes – on the whole I’ve wound up being happy, but is that really relevant? What is being able to live and spend time with your family compared to dying your hair blonde?

I just can’t believe I’ve left it this late. I need to spend the next 26 days inventing a time machine. I need to go back to my 19 year old self and tell him something important. I need to say this…

“Whatever you do, DO NOT leave Steve’s party in Lincoln early, just so that you can catch the last train home and not shell out for a taxi. Sally and Jane will make some blatantly big hints about the three of you going back to theirs for some fun, which you won’t fully receive into your drunken head straight away – but trust me, they do mean what you will suddenly think they mean when you are sat on the train. I can’t give any guarantees about what will happen if you stay, but I do know that the telephone number you get from her doesn’t work and even if it did, your one and only ever threesome moment will have gone you complete buffoon, so don’t cock it up this time over the price of a taxi!”