I'm not quite at mid-life crisis point yet, as I hope to live long beyond 58, but I have taken stock and come up with inventory of Radge, 2008. Everything changes and everything stays the same.
The washing up must be done immediately, with minimum time on the draining board. Who can be looking at them? Not me anyway. Cleanliness in radgeliness.
I look forward to a good episode of Prime Time, and Questions And Answers provokes thought as opposed to the switching over to the football.
I drink herbal teas, and coffee is now ground. No more with the Gold Blend.
I frown upon shots. Mostly.
I house a plant.
I buy tea towels.
I worry about cleaning the oven after cooking, worry being the operative word. I actually clean it roughly once a month, a big step up from never.
I notice when people get haircuts, men and women. Actually, I always noticed, but I now voice it.
I can admit freely when a member of the same sex is good looking, confident I won't be mistaken for a homosexual.
I no longer listen to young people's music.
RTE. Radio. One.
Matching socks always.
I wonder where my taxes are going.
I correct assignments, as opposed to write them.
I meet people for coffee.
I feel the cold more.
I praise the advent of online banking at least once a week.
I put off social engagements to do my washing.
I own more than one pair of shoes. And a suit.
I sigh loudly when I see the youth of today doing, well, anything.
I have a bed-time.
I enjoy correcting spelling mistakes.
I pay for family meals. Well, once to this point, and I expect kudos for it for years to come.
I have, in my lifetime, bought a spatula.
I have a Bebo page.
The Griffith College Student Handbook that I spilt beer on during a drunken session last November is still on the floor under the chair in my living room.
I do a 'half laugh' every time I fart on my own.
Pasta. Daily. It seems.
I never remember to water the plant.
I frequently ignore my bed-time.
I'm still late with the assignments.
I pretend two miniature basketballs in work are my testicles, and sit with them in place until someone (Dave) notices.
I own a water pistol.
I lost my water pistol.
I can't even be responsible for the safe upkeep of a water pistol.
I still refer to 'the gays'.
I feel myself reddening when talking to a particularly attractive female. While I have attained (I do hope) a certain level of skill in the conversational aspect of pre-coital verbosity (chatting up), my face betrays the urge to plunder.
I can't negotiate wages.
The subject of the housing market/economy in general makes me yearn for self harm.