As you grow older, a sort of peculiar indolence begins to seep into everythingeven the smallest tasks.
Its the type of tale whispered behind steamed windows on damp London mornings. I dont argue; I merely recount.
With age, simple things become strangely tricky. The act of pulling yourself out of your creaky bed at dawn, scrubbing your teeth one more time, assembling a sensible breakfast of toast and marmalade, or doing the laundry. Laziness thread its way into it all. We are not known for our hustle.
Yet, invisible rules hang overhead, silent as the clouds over Yorkshire fields. Were bound to them, whether we fancy it or not. Were not allowed to shrug off cleanliness, neglect to brush our teeth, skip washing our face, or leave our clothes unwashed. Why? Because society in Somerset, Manchester, or any corner of the British Isles requires it.
Lets not leave our clothes to become relics of yesterdays curry or last weeks rain. The greatest necessity is that theyre free from sweats signature, not tainted with the scent of neglect, nor reveal that you wore your wool coat all through April.
Grey hair is a badge you earn, as splurging precious pounds on hair dye from the retirement cheques seems hardly worth it. A Tesco shampoo does the trick quite well for most. So, hairyes, let it be rinsed. The same applies to the face. Rouge and powder lose their charm as the years stretch on, but a clean face remains essential.
On hands, a dab of E45 or supermarket lotion. Under the arms, perhaps the cheapest roll-on you can find. In the shoessoda bicarbonate, the unsung hero for whiff removal. If your body sings an unwelcome tune, treat it with a dusting of that same soda.
Gazing at it like this, the problem unravels simply. We grow fond of our sloth and defend our tired aromas and wafting scentsboth physical and, occasionally, moralby listing age, retirement, and lack of funds as our excuses. But truthfully, it costs little to scrub up.
So, whatever your birthdays tally to, remain dignifiedlook after yourself. Thats how I see it, winding through the strange corridors of this dream.
